Chapter Sixteen: The Distance

Somewhere above the Mojave, September, 1947

The soldier's hand is shaking as he tries to pour the wine, but Cassandra's hand holding the glass is still as ice. Once he's finished and returns to his seat, she takes a sip, all the while glaring out the window of the airplane.

"Have the others been told to prepare for our arrival?"

"Yes, ma'am," the soldier says. "Everyone's going to be there."

"I'm sure," Cassandra spits. "Did anyone report on actually managing to kill Carter and her band of rejects?"

"I - It doesn't seem so, ma'am."

"My lady."

"I'm sorry?"

"It's not 'ma'am', I am a Baroness. I do not expect you to know German, but it is 'my lady'. You must be new, but it's important to observe the hierarchy of rule."

"Yes ma - yes, my lady."

"Grace understood that. She's probably dead now - pity. Of all my secretaries she was the most…unobtrusive." She swirls her wine and takes another sip. "Of course, Carter probably made it out. Like a cockroach, that woman. At least her brother I can understand. Carter should be a stain on my boot by now." She sighs. "Make sure Alamogordo knows to expect some uninvited guests as well."

"Yes my lady." The young soldier gets on the radio and Cassandra closes her eyes to think. Somehow I know I'll see you at the finale, Carter. Enjoy the feeling - I won't let you get away again.

Texas Company service station, Compton

Roger uses his gifts to break into a service station. Just enough to borrow an early Chevy Master. Ivan had convinced a few of his to stay behind in the city, and they're taking the old Ford back that way now. Nico's injured enough to warrant getting aid - better to catch an internal injury now than have the poor lad collapse and die needlessly later. It means seeing a friendly doctor at a particular location Ivan wouldn't disclose.

Emily's car is riddled with bullet holes, poor girl, but she claims it can still run. Peggy's has far more work than they had time for at best; at worst she needed a new one. Howard could pay for it, Roger imagines. Perhaps gift one of his own, he has quite a collection - Lincolns, Cadillacs, Mercedes, even a Tucker Talisman.

Roger searches the workbenches until he pulls out a set of keys for the car, which starts and he wheels it to the others. "Your chariot, Peg." He tosses her the keys, and everyone jumps to their stations. Peggy takes point in the Chevy, with Emily and Dottie in the back. Stark's car peels out after her, Ivan sitting next to him and feeling profoundly out-of-place in the Packard convertible. Roger jumps into the passenger seat next to Michael, Sousa seated in the back and assembling a rifle just in case someone - or something - follows them. Another good thing about the service station is how close it is to the highway east.

Once they're at a high enough speed, Emily pulls out the radio. "Caller, this is Tracker. We're still in pursuit of the crown, but we're still alive too. How about yourself?"

Glendale Memorial Hospital, Los Angeles, California

"We're hanging in there," Rose replies, hiding herself around a corner from prying eyes as she speaks into the radio. "I take it things didn't go as cleanly as we hoped?"

"Negative," comes Peggy's voice. "Target Cobra has the Package and made her escape in a chopper. We barely had time to regroup or restock - we're chasing after her now to make sure we stand a chance of catching up, and the only reason we have the time to chat is because it's a straight shot from here to the end. I take it you're still at the hospital?"

"Yep. Ana's here for observation but the doctors think she'll be fine - loose stitches, not torn. Samberley's still out, but the doctor's say he's stable. If he'd been allergic it would've been a different story." She cranes her neck back to look towards his room, and the towering wall of a man standing in front of it. "Nonna Clotilde sent one of her men to keep an eye on us, um…Silvio. just to be safe."

"That's considerate of her," Peggy replies. "We'll have to cross that bridge when we get to it, but I can't see her trying to betray us after everything we've done. And you can tell him to pass on that we're still hoping to bag the Target how she wanted"

"Happy to," Rose replies. "You gals at liberty to say where you're headed now?"

"The desert," Emily says, and after a pause it's clear she won't elaborate. Still, Rose was at the planning meeting - she can put two and two together. "Be careful. It sounds like you're driving straight into the spider's web."

"Well aware of that, thanks," Emily says. "How are the Testers?"

"Hunkered down in the lab. They know they can't do much to help y'all from the city, so they're seeing what they can do in case…well. In case you can't keep that door closed."

There's another long pause from the other side of the Radio, and Rose can almost see the look the two women are exchanging - the one that says they just might fail. She's about to repeat herself when it crackles once more. "Copy that. Good thinking. We'll let you know once we've reached our destination."

"Good luck, ladies."

The radio falls silent, and Rose makes her way back to the guard. "Your people checking in?" he asks.

"Yep. They haven't gotten Romulus' head yet, but they're working on it."

The man shakes his head. "You're a nice enough gal, but if she slips through their fingers again Nonna Clothilde won't be very happy."

Rose nods. "I trust them. And they know that if she gets away again, that's it for them." And for everyone, Rose thinks as she takes a seat next to Samberley.

Route 66, California

They're just exiting Barstow as the sky starts to lighten. On the horizon is a hazy crescent of yellow that turns to grey-blue, then the sky fades into a deep blue.

Dottie fell asleep before they left Los Angeles. It's still strange to see her so weak, so fragile. Howard had to snap her out of her trance on the sprint to the garage and looked shaken when they stopped. Emily fussed a bit over Dottie, who didn't seem to mind - seems to revel in the attention in her lucid moments - before turning to help patch Peggy up. Just did it, without much prompting, cleaned the wound and made an alright dressing. Then promptly left her when Daniel came to check.

And another surprise is how utterly dead to the world Dottie is despite Emily's apparent need to race a train.

"Gower, you know you don't need to go 50 miles," Peggy says, glancing over her shoulder at the increasing distance between themselves and their companions.

"Should I go faster, ma'am?" she asks. Her voice has the cool, professionalism of Jarvis on the clock.

"No, I'm just concerned we're getting too far ahead of the others."

"Right." Emily lowers her speed by a few miles, but otherwise doesn't react.

They're quiet again. It's just the sound of the road and Dottie's breathing and the rising sun. Broken up by the occasional chatter between the other vehicles in their convoy. There's a few moments when Emily seems on the verge of saying something, but then decides to hold her peace. What do you say to someone who you've made a point of not getting along with? Especially given its apparent one-sidedness.

She drums her fingers along the dashboard. Perhaps small talk is the best they can muster. It'll be at least three hours before Kingman.

"Where'd you learn to drive?" Peggy asks.

"My dad taught me the basics. Learned the more advanced stuff with the ATS."

"Driver?" It was one of the more glamorous assignments in the ATS. There was always the chance to be the assigned driver to a general.

She nods and answers, "And mechanic, for a short time. Then got assigned as a dispatch rider after Dunkirk. I liked that job a lot. Then someone realized I spoke perfect German and one thing led to another." Then she asks, almost as an afterthought, "What did you do before Captain America? If you don't mind me asking, ma'am."

"I was an ATS girl, too," Peggy answers. "But my time there was mostly at Bletchley."

Emily nods. "Did they stick you in the office, or did you volunteer?"

"The latter," Peggy replies. "Trying to play the part and all that. A little codebreaking - a lot more translating - and fetching coffee was just the right mix of proper woman and national service to make mother proud - though she would have preferred the Wrens."

"Much more tweedy."

"Indeed. But in any case, she thinks I was just doing some clerking for the Foreign Office. Bagged myself a fiance pretty quickly, as well."

This surprises Emily enough that when she turns to Peggy with a raised eyebrow, the car swerves to the right as well. It's not enough to slow them down, but it's enough to make Peggy smirk ever-so-slightly. "You don't seem like a marriage type."

"Neither do you," Peggy replies, nodding to the ring on Emily's finger. It takes Emily a moment for her to register that it's what caught Carter's eye. The same ring from when she and Michael were in another desert, scrambling to save the world from another batch of mad science, what feels like an eternity ago.

"Ah. It was a cover story for Michael and myself." It also helps if they need to throw on a fast cover these days as well, not to mention it's a nice memento, but she doesn't know if this is the time to be saying all that.

"Of course. I wasn't so lucky when it came to Fred."

"But then…" Emily begins knowingly.

"But then," Peggy affirms. "Michael saw my potential and how I was settling, tried to push me to do something more with myself."

"And he eventually got through to you?"

"Well he died first," Peggy replies bluntly, still drumming her fingers. They've been through enough over the past 48 hours for her to find a modicum of understanding in why Michael did what he did, but she can't help putting a little venom on the statement.

Still, Emily smirks. "That would do it."

"Quite. And you can probably put together everything that came after that."

"You weren't the first woman who wanted to get her hands dirty as soon as the war showed up on your doorstep," Emily replies.

Peggy nods in agreement. And she could leave it at that, but…there's something to be said about shared experiences. For all that she's kept Emily Gower at arm's length during this operation, she wonders if the two of them have suddenly stumbled upon common ground. "There was a moment, after we thought he was gone, where I looked at my life and couldn't help but see the artificiality. The classic English facade, I'm sure you're familiar."

"I am, but you English don't have a monopoly on stiff upper lips."

"I remember at some point between us getting the news and the wedding preparations, that everything reminded me of a child playing at house. Everyone went about in the role they'd been given, and if they kept calm and carried on they'd get a biscuit and a pat on the head at the end of the day."

"Well, the war was over there, and your family was over here." Emily said. "And even if your brother was on the front lines, he was supposed to be safe because he was from here, and the danger was from there."

"Little Rubicons for every household. My mother didn't dare look at it - she'd rather hunker down and get me in my dress. My father put on a good show of railing against the heavens, but I could tell he wasn't exactly…shocked by the development. He always bet against Michael." And now she knew why, Peggy wasn't quite ready to test the waters with an elaboration. "If you don't mind me asking - did you lose anyone?"

"It was war, ma'am. We all lost something." But Emily's surprised by how much she welcomes the question. There's no pity in the tone, just two gals trading war stories, but she's struck by the realization that she hasn't really had the opportunity to talk about what she's seen with people who weren't there with her. "My parents were lucky enough not to dig any graves, but one of my first assignments fell apart before my eyes."

"Toulon?" Peggy ventures, and Emily nods. "Michael didn't share all the details, but I had a feeling. All the higher-ups used it as a cautionary tale. I think the fact that a young girl is what got the intelligence back into SOE hands instead of a strapping young man was a bit of an embarrassment for some of them."

"It was certainly a sticky wicket for them to deal with. They had to give me flowers without making any of the lads jealous. I ended up being stuck in limbo for a few weeks before I got assigned to Michael, and if he hadn't recommended I stay on then I'm not sure where I would've ended up."

"He was always going to keep you," Peggy says softly. When Emily looks at her in interest, Peggy continues. "He saw too much of me in you to cut you loose."

Emily almost says something, reconsiders, and turns back to the road. The sun is rising now, burning down on them and seemingly magnified by the sand and scrub surrounding them. She pushes thoughts of needing something to drink away as she tightens her grip on the wheel. Peggy's still drumming her fingers, but now each one feels like a hammer driving a nail home. "Ma'am, I don't want to assume, but I can't help but feel that there's been a bit of a divide between the two of us. I'll admit I may have contributed to that, but I cannot take sole credit."

Peggy stills her fingers. "Well, you're right about one thing - I haven't exactly been welcoming." It's almost an apology, but Peggy makes sure to shoot it down before it lands. "But you have to admit, some of your behaviour has been a little…untoward."

Emily straightens up. Carter may not have any actual authority over her, but this is starting to feel a little closer to an interrogation than a conversation. "Could you elaborate on that, ma'am?"

"Ivan, for one," Peggy states.

"He's been useful, as were his men," Emily patiently responds.

"In hindsight, yes. But things could have gone very differently. You've also demonstrated a grab bag of other reckless habits, not to mention how my brother seems to prioritize you in both safety and strategy. You have him wrapped around your finger."

"My finger?" Emily snaps. "Beg pardon ma'am, but the only person I've seen Michael kowtow to more than you is Roger, which paints a very illuminating picture of what you two must have been like at home. I'm used to seeing him make quick decisions in the middle of an attack, and now he looks to you like he's never seen the field in his life."

"Oh, so you expected to waltz into this operation and assume second in command?"

"What I expected was a modicum of respect afforded to me and Michael. Not even as a soldier or an agent. He's not some stranger, Carter, he's your brother."

"Well apparently he'd rather be yours!" Peggy snaps, and immediately regrets it. She curses under her breath and turns to face the window. That was a child's answer, and she knows it. She closes her eyes, blocking the sun, not because her eyes suddenly feel wet.

The silence swells too much as the two try and find something to say - Peggy looking to justify her outburst, Emily to disprove it's veracity. But Emily can't blame Peggy. She knew something like this was bound to be said eventually, but it still stings. She realizes that she's been slowly tightening her grip on the wheel this whole time, and makes herself relax before something irreparable gets snapped.

"That was crass of me," Peggy finally speaks.

"Still…I'm sure it might look like that from the outside," Emily says. "This may not be mine to say but…I know he hated it. Being separate from you and your family." She takes a deep breath. "He didn't talk about his home life all that much - university, certainly, and every now and then his experiences before the SOE. But I think it would have hurt him too much to speak about you and Matthew and your parents because he knew he couldn't turn around and tell you all the things we were doing. He never walled himself off - the mission necessitated it. He just chose not to tear those walls down for the longest time."

"Mmm," Peggy nods. "The…the reason I say he was always going to choose you is because he chose me the same way. He gave the recommendation that I enter the field, and that was the domino that set me up to join the SOE, SSR, Project Rebirth, the whole mess." She turns to face Emily. "He doesn't give up on the people he cares about. You must have made quite an impression on him for him to see you the way he does so quickly. And I stand by what I said about him seeing a lot of me in you, because I see a lot of myself in you as well."

"Maybe…but I don't think he was ever looking for a new sister," Emily replies. "Honestly, I'm a little jealous of you."

"How? You got to know him at his bravest."

"Yes, but you got to know him at his best. Now you can see the whole picture."

Peggy can't help but doubt that's true, but the statement feels a little more true coming from Emily than it would anyone else. There's something to be said about shared experiences, and the timeline of their lives does seem to mirror the other quite closely (minus a few brushes with the occult). They lost something important to them, slipped through the ranks of intelligence trying to find a new foundation, and wound up falling directly into a warfront beyond what anyone had expected to face. Peggy can't help but imagine that, had the roles been reversed, Emily the sister left at home and Peggy the soldier looking for a new purpose, they'd still be having this same confrontation today. It was almost like…

"He's your Steve," Peggy says with a small smile.

"I can't speak to that ma'am, but…I suppose it's an apt descriptor."

Peggy nods. Silence falls once more, but it's less stifling this time. That air of understanding is back. There's no evidence that the two are about to agree on anything else, but both start to hope that the modicum of respect requested earlier is finally being granted.

"Did he…" Peggy starts. "Did he ever tell you about Mykonos?"

Emily contemplates this for a moment before answering, "No, not really. And when it was brought up, it was usually by Robby Frank or Roger. Vaguely, too."

Peggy chuckles, "So he never told you? Did Maddie Joyce-Frank say anything?"

"No, not really," she replies with a shake of her head. "Said she'd 'tell me when I'm older'."

Peggy bursts into laughter before saying, "I can't believe that Maddie of all people would leave you in the dark about Mykonos!"

The cigarettes come out and the windows get rolled down. It looks like it's going to be a hot day, anyway.

"You smoke, Sousa?" Michael asks, trying to make some small talk.

Sousa huffs. "Ah, what the hell," he answers. Once he's lit up and had a few puffs, Sousa adds, "Used to smoke a lot more during the war."

"Why'd you cut back?" Roger asks from the back.

"Not freezing my ass off in a foxhole anymore," Sousa shrugs. "And I dated a nurse for a bit who didn't like it."

Michael replies, "Fair enough. Peg doesn't like them either - hates the smell."

"Yeah. She made that pretty loud and clear. Though I think part was just to get some of the guys to leave her alone."

So nothing's really changed. Peggy's always attracted men like moths to a flame.

Sousa takes his turn to ask, "How about yourselves? What were you up to back then?"

"Royal Northumberland Fusiliers," Michael replies. "Then sent to Intelligence after Dunkirk."

"Royal Navy." Roger adds.

"That's obvious," quips Sousa.

Roger barks a laugh. "Ha! The Senior Service! Nothing but rum, sodomy, and the lash, eh?" He leans over the back of the front row. "It's all good fun, you know. For all that Yank bravado, your lot get as prim as a vicar."

Sousa blows some smoke at Roger. "I'm not 'prim' but I know when to mind my own business."

No spy minds their own business. They are, by nature, incorrigible gossips. Snoops and eavesdroppers, the lot of them. Gathering these crumbs of knowledge meant survival at Michael's boarding school. A peak at a lesson plan to better pass a test. A bit of blackmail to get a prefect to leave you alone. These developed skills that served their clandestine world well, and twists one up inside. It's far from a healthy mindset to develop.

Sousa seems a fairly straight forward man. More of a soldier than a spy. Not entirely a bad sort, but one disposed to a direct view of the world. If given the chance, he'd be ideal for commando training. Perhaps one of Sterling's men. If things had gone different, Sousa could have been a decent partisan. But not a spy.

"Who'd you serve with?" Michael asks.

"82nd Airborne all the way," he answers, then adds with a bitter laugh, "Until my leg got blown off."

"And that's how you ended up with the SSR?" Michael follows up.

"Was something to do once I healed up." But then he shakes his head. "I shouldn't say that. The fight wasn't over, really."

"Don't think it'll ever end." Michael tries not to sound pessimistic. It's a war they must fight. One that they seemed fated to fight.

"It's a worthy fight," Sousa replies. "It's just that we're dealing with cockroaches. They're hard to kill. But after this, I think I need a vacation."

Roger pipes up from the back, "Here, here. Tahiti's wonderful."

"You've been?" Sousa asks.

"No," Roger drawls, "Not yet, unfortunately. I heard it's rather magical. But Michael, d'you remember that yachting trip to Mykonos?"

"Yes. That was quite a time," Michael answers wistfully.

("Yachting?" Sousa mutters to himself.)

The Mykonos trip was fun - a very Maddie surprise for their little group. It wasn't her yacht, she borrowed it from some millionaire uncle, but it did give Michael a better picture of the sort of rank she held. And it was his first time in Greece - even if he was a little… over enthusiastic about it. But they're getting off track.

"Sousa's friends with Stark, Roger, he'll get there sooner or later."

Roger once again leans over the back of the front seats. "So, Daniel." Sousa rolls his eyes to look at him. "Do you prefer men, women, or both?"

Sousa nearly chokes on his cigarette. Roger looks like he's auditioning for the Cheshire Cat. Michael stares ahead at the road watching his meticulously planned line of questioning get thrown out the window.

After catching his breath and tossing the half-finished cig out the window, Sousa looks back to Roger. "What are you talking about?" he asks.

"Oh, my dear, dear Daniel! Don't be like that. It's not that outlandish of a question."

He turns to Michael, demanding, "Did you put him up to this?"

Michael sighs and admits, "Look. You and my sister seem particularly close. I'm sure you're aware that you're not the first man who came into her affections."

"I know about Steve Rogers."

"And there were others before him."

"So? She's an adult woman. Who are you two to judge?"

"Fair," Michael says. "But I am allowed to have my concerns."

"Margo has a rotten track record when it comes to men," Roger adds.

Sousa retorts, "Again, she's an adult! For all you know, she's figured herself out. Why does this matter?"

"I hope it's true," Michael responds, "But you of all people know what she's like when she gets the bit between her teeth. You can't tell her anything. Peg's usually right when it comes to situations like what we've found ourselves in. But you weren't there when… Father had very high expectations and his approval was like manna from heaven."

Michael doesn't notice the growing concern on Sousa's face, but does notice the rising tension in his chest. Roger, thankfully notices.

"It's why she was engaged to that Fred fellow… Was that his name?"

"Engaged?" Sousa asks.

"Yes. Fred. Fred Wells." Now Michael can redirect his anxieties into his (admittedly somewhat irrational) hatred for Wells. "Somehow, my sister managed to not just find, but for some God forsaken reason get engaged to, the most boring man in all of London."

"I say! He should have been a vicar. He was Mr. Collins come to life! Countess So-and-so's garden party would be too much for Fred Wells. You've read Austen, Sousa?" Roger asks.

"No."

Roger tuts in mock dismay. "The lack of culture with this one, Michael! Whatever shall we do?"

"I like Hemingway, is that good enough for Peggy?"

"Actually yes," Roger replies. "It's been some time since we last spoke about literature, but she does like Hemingway. Honestly she's rather muscular in her reading tastes from what I remember. Liked Austen and Christie - to a lesser extent the Brontës - but Peg was never much one for Hodgson Burnett. She's read more Haggard, Stevenson, and Jack London than anyone I know. Her tastes have likely matured, so aside from Hemingway, you're best bets are Steinbeck, Chandler, Buchan. She likes Conan Doyle, as well. These two," he leans over to pat Michael on the shoulder, "used to have very spirited debates about Holmes and Lupin."

"The greatest detective goes up against the greatest thief. How I miss those sorts of debates," Michael adds wistfully.

"Didn't they make a movie about Lupin?" Sousa asks.

"Yes, with two Berrymores in the leads," Roger answers.

"Sounds good." He'll at least have more things to talk about than war stories and work.

"Library recommendations aside," Michael cuts in, "Peg only cut that engagement short because our whole family went to hell. But she still has that stubborn streak. If she's decided to keep you in her inner circle, I'm sure you're aware. But it also means that, whether she chooses you or not, you'll have a hard time convincing her to change her mind."

Now this Sousa could relate to. He's spent the better part of two years getting to know Peggy - first as the dame who caught his eye back in New York, then as the woman who routed at least two plots to start a new war (maybe more, since she clearly didn't tell him everything), and now as a person with a deeply committed sense of justice and drive to do the right thing for those she cared about. He counted himself lucky to be among that number, but… "I'd be lying if I said she didn't have a bit of a one-track mind. But like you've said, she's usually right on the money when that happens." Daniel turns to gaze at the desert flying by. "And I'm sure you've both picked up on the fact that there's something between us." And that's not hyperbole - it's something. She had quite literally jumped into his arms once the first Zero Matter Crisis had been averted (though he'd never say that in the presence of this company). Thompson's death had certainly taken the wind out of her sails, and they haven't had much time to discuss anything further since, but Daniel's sure they'll make things official sooner rather than later. "I suppose this is the part where you ask me about my intentions with your sister?"

Michael can see some kind of optimism in the soldier's eyes, and he doesn't want to kill it, but he doesn't want it running rampant towards his sister either. "Like you've been saying - she's a grown woman, she knows what she wants. If it's you, I can't complain. But what I will say is that she's a lot more…business-oriented than when I first knew her."

"What do you mean by that?" Sousa asks.

"Queen Elizabeth said she was wed to England. 'I will have but one mistress here, and no master'," Roger quips in response. "Would it be shocking if Queen Margaret wed espionage itself?"

Flagstaff, Arizona

They stop in Flagstaff for gas and a quick bite to eat. It's a chance for Dottie to stretch her legs. To warm up in the desert sun. To feel something close to being herself again.

But what is that? Herself?

She's never had a good grasp of that. She was trained to be a chameleon. To be a mirror for others to see what they wanted to see. Is she Aleksandra Volkova? Was there ever an Aleksandra? An Alya? Is she just Dottie Underwood now? Or has the Zero Matter consumed them all?

Did they mean anything?

But at the moment, she feels hot, tired, and sick. And Dottie knows she hates feeling sick and weak. And hungry, she notes with irritation as her stomach growls.

Peggy calls out, "Underwood! Catch!"

Dottie catches the item with ease - something soft and warm wrapped in wax paper, which she opens to a hamburger. She bites into it greedily, barely noticing the taste of the meat, cheese, and condiments. All that matters is that she has food and that it is filling.

"Wolf that down," Peggy mutters between bites of her own hamburger.

"Starving."

Peggy lifts a perfectly shaped brow, but continues to eat. The first rule of interrogations: if offered food and water, do not refuse. You need all the strength. As far as she knew, Dottie wasn't in any immediate danger.

Peggy looks like she's about to say something when Sousa calls her over. She tosses a glance at Dottie before walking off. Aloof and out of reach. As much as she's tried to get Peggy's attention - tried to get under her skin. Dottie did anything, absolutely anything, to get her attention. It doesn't matter if it's for good or bad reasons, she just wants Peggy to see her. Acknowledge her. Even if Peggy had to come down on her like some pagan goddess destroying a monster, she wouldn't mind. She was halfway there when they first met. It's the only way their story ends.

Dottie spies the good comrade talking with Emily. She slows down her chewing as she watches. All the better to swallow back the bile in her mouth. They're far enough away that Dottie can't make out what they're saying, but they look so… casual. Like any man and who may be a couple, or perhaps they're flirting. Comrade Ivan's leaning on Stark's car, not a care in the world, but his attention is fixed on Emily leans in to say something - distant enough for propriety's sake, but close enough to show her interest and attentiveness. It's as if Emily was oblivious to the danger Ivan posed. She's not sure if he's NKVD or GRU, but does it matter? He's loyal to the party and would purge his own mother if ordered to.

She wishes Emily would be so casual and free with her. Damned rules. Damned society. Any desires must be put aside for the sake of duty. For the sake of propriety. For the sake of others' comfort. It's unfair. She's pretty, brave, smart, and sweet. She's a monster like Dottie. Now more than ever. If there was someone who could understand, it's Emily. Peggy is meant to be worshiped. Dottie can reach out and touch Emily. At least, she thought she could.

Emily and Ivan's conversation comes to an end. She comes over to Dottie, gently touching her arm, and says, "Ivan suggests we go to Cloudcroft. Thinks it'll be easier to get to that HYDRA facility from the mountains and avoids tipping off any guards at White Sands."

It's all unfair. But Dottie shrugs and says, "Seems fine to me." Emily nods and walks off to tell the others. While Dottie stares after her.

Ivan doesn't know if it's a nervous reaction, but Howard Stark talks without end. He talks of nothing of importance - gossip, dinners with various celebrities, and various sexual conquests. He does have the decency to avoid details for the latter. Still, Ivan is no longer fifteen and this sort of 'men's talk' became dull by the time he was twenty-five. He lights up a cigarette, mostly to give himself something to do and potentially distract from the growing headache. Ivan hasn't slept in close to twenty-four hours and Emily knocking him out didn't truly count.

In a brief moment alone with his men, Ivan instructed them that once Nico was at the doctor's they were to head east themselves. He told them to go south, to Phoenix, and hopefully reach Las Cruces by the time this convoy gets to Albuquerque. They will not lose Volkova, Ivan promised. It buys time for him and Emily to smooth out the final details of this charade.

"You like music, Ivan?" Stark asks, hand on the radio dial. "I can put on the radio. Won't interfere with comms."

He shrugs, "Go ahead. I do not mind."

A western swing song plays and Stark's chatter dies down a bit. It's interrupted when Emily's voice comes on over the radio. "Be advised, hairpin curve 100 yards ahead." Stark affirms and goes back to the mindless, nervous chatter. Ivan remains quiet and contemplates that perhaps he's been alone for too long.

Cloudcroft, New Mexico

Dan Kane's day off had been going fine. Izzy got up without much fuss, the chickens had laid some extra eggs, so Nancy made omelets, and he finished the chores rather quickly. The rest of the day, Kane split his time reading and keeping Izzy entertained and out of Nancy's hair.

That was, until he saw a squirrel attack a bird at one of the feeders, and started scarfing down the seeds. Pissed Kane off something royal.

He sent Izzy inside the house and grabbed his shotgun. He blasted away the little bastard, and for good measure, he shot at a few more squirrels. Make sure his message was loud and clear. Kane was likely going to have to move the bird feeder anyway, but that's a job for later.

Over the breeze and rustle of trees, he hears the hum of engines. Their house is on the crest of a hill, surrounded by pines, and the lane disappeared around a corner. Yet it was long enough for Kane to see a dust cloud before a cream coloured Packard rounded the corner, followed by blue and black cars. He doesn't recognize any of the cars. The shotgun's empty and he's only got two cartridges left in his pocket. And he's standing around like Lil' Abner in bare feet and overalls. Then out of the Packard steps Ivan.

Of all the Goddamned people in the world.

Ivan waves and opens his mouth but Kane interrupts, trying not to yell, "What the hell's going on?"

"I can explain," Ivan says, walking up to him.

"You better." The town's small enough that people might start talking - the last thing he needs.

"What are you doing with the gun?" Ivan asks in Spanish.

"Squirrels. What's all this?" He gestures to the cars and the people stepping out of them. Were they Ivan's hit team? Three women, four men; one looking a lot like Howard Stark.

"You know that site you showed me? Well, HYDRA's involved and they're about to do something incredibly dangerous. We could use your help."

"Dan? Everythin' alright?" Nancy calls from the porch. She's clutching Izzy's hand so the little girl doesn't run off. Nan looks concerned, while Izzy's excited about the new people. Kane didn't like that new site out in the desert. Nothing good could come from it. He's been afraid that it was a new site for testing missiles and those new atomic weapons. And now it's HYDRA…

"Will you help?" Ivan asks.

"It's alright, Nan," Kane calls back to his wife. To Ivan he answers, "I'll help you - I'll take you to that ridge - but you can't stay here."

Ivan claps him on the back, "I knew I could count on you."