The roar of the quinjet was the only sound besides the scream in Bucky's mind.
He sat in the jump seat nearest the back, strapped in with gear weighing heavy across his chest. Black tactical vest. Grenades. A pistol strapped to each thigh. Knife in his boot. Rifle across his lap like an extension of his own fury.
The engines thrummed like a heartbeat.
Not fast enough.
Every minute that passed without Charlie was another moment she was alone—hurt, bleeding, scared. Or maybe not scared. Maybe she was still fighting. Maybe she was still refusing to beg. But Bucky had seen what they did to people like that. He knew what came next.
The comm in his ear crackled.
"Jet will drop you 500 meters off the coast," Sharon's voice came through calmly. "There's a rocky shelf leading up to a sewer outlet—old, half-collapsed, but it'll get you inside. We'll guide you in through infrared."
"Copy," Bucky said low.
"Satellite picked up movement an hour ago—there's definitely heat signatures, but no confirmation on Charlie yet. We assume she's below ground."
Sam's voice cut in. "Buck, listen… don't do this thing where you decide if she's gone, then you are too. You come back. With her, or we burn that place down trying."
Bucky didn't answer.
Instead, he reached into the front of his vest and pulled out a folded scrap of cloth.
Charlie's tank top.
He'd grabbed it off the floor before they left the hotel room. It still smelled like her—citrus shampoo, sweat, and heat from the night before.
He closed his eyes and pressed it to his mouth.
"She's not gone," he said finally. His voice was steel. "I'd know."
The coast appeared like a ghost through the cockpit window—jagged, overgrown, swallowed by mist. A long-dead naval base repurposed into a nightmare.
The pilot glanced back. "We're at drop point. You ready, Sergeant?"
Bucky stood, locked the rifle into place on his back, and pulled his gloves tight.
The look in his eyes made the pilot flinch.
"Open the ramp."
The wind howled as the rear bay lowered. The sea below crashed black and cold, but Bucky didn't hesitate. He stepped off the edge like a man already walking through hell.
Saltwater swallowed him.
He surfaced silently, breaking through like a shadow, and struck out toward the cliffs.
Every motion was precise. Efficient. Mechanical. Like the part of him that once belonged to the Winter Soldier had snapped into place again, sharpened by rage and need.
When he reached the rocks, he climbed with bare fingers and steel grip, scaling the craggy edge in silence.
Ahead, the sewer outlet gaped like a throat carved in stone.
He slipped inside.
Darkness closed around him. The only sound was the drip of water echoing off the walls and the low hum of power from somewhere ahead.
And his heartbeat, slow and cold.
He'd come to kill the devil.
And take back his girl.
The pain was white noise now.
She didn't know how long she'd been down there—days, maybe. Time stopped meaning anything after the first blow. After the second shock of cold water. After the bruises layered over bruises and the blood dried sticky on her skin.
Her lips were split, eyes swollen, but they were still open. Still seeing. Still here.
She hadn't screamed.
She hadn't begged.
Even when he put the gun to her head. Even when the camera light blinked on and she saw herself reflected on some cold screen back at the base.
She had locked her eyes on that lens and kept her mouth shut.
And when the bastard cracked the butt of the gun across her cheek, she hadn't made a sound.
But now… now something changed.
She blinked slowly, adjusting to the flickering fluorescent light above.
Something in her chest—some old instinct buried under years of sleep—twitched.
The air tasted different.
The pressure shifted in her ears.
Something was coming.
And not fear. No, not fear this time.
It tasted like smoke and thunder. Like metal and gunpowder.
It tasted like Bucky.
Her battered body surged with adrenaline, just a flicker. Just enough for her to roll her head toward the door, where silence reigned on the other side—but it was a charged silence.
Her fingers curled against the floor.
And for the first time since she'd been taken, she felt something bloom in her ribs.
Hope.
Steel. Concrete. Minimal external security, but that was a front—he knew it. The real threats were inside. With her.
Every second that passed was another second she might be suffering, another second she could be losing hope. He couldn't afford to wait for backup. Couldn't afford caution.
Not now.
He moved.
Silent. Swift. Like a ghost with a vendetta.
The first guard didn't even see him coming—Bucky was on him with a whisper of movement, metal hand closing over his mouth as he slammed the man against the wall. One brutal twist of the wrist. The body crumpled, silent.
He dragged it into the shadows and slipped inside through a vent that looked too small for a grown man. It didn't matter. Pain was a language Bucky spoke fluently.
Room by room, he swept the halls. The silence was strange. Too strange.
His muscles stayed coiled tight, adrenaline pushing him into near-frenzy. His mouth was dry, eyes stinging from sweat and rain, but he didn't stop. Couldn't.
The sound of a scream—her scream—was still fresh in his skull. He was going to kill the bastard with his bare hands.
The facility's interior was dimly lit, sterile, mechanical. Long halls stretched before him, lined with glass doors and reinforced concrete.
He moved through like a shadow, disabling cameras, snapping necks, yanking files from terminals. Anything that might give him a clue to where they were keeping her.
Charlie. His Charlie.
He kicked through another door—empty.
Another—just a lab with old equipment and dried blood on the floor.
Then he found it.
A room sealed tighter than the rest. Reinforced. No windows. But he felt it—her.
He reached for the handle—
And the floor exploded beneath him.
Not literal fire—but pressure, smoke, and then nothingness. His body dropped fast—trap door—hell of a trap.
He hit metal and concrete, hard.
He rolled to his feet before his brain caught up, already reaching for his gun—his knife—anything.
But they were waiting.
A hiss of gas filled the air—something sharp, synthetic, poisonous in his lungs.
He staggered.
Not from pain.
A voice came through the speaker in the dark. Low. Mocking.
"You didn't think we'd let you get that close without preparing for you, did you, Soldier?"
The lights flared to life, blinding.
Bucky raised his arm to shield his eyes—and the dart struck him clean in the throat.
He barely managed a snarl before his knees buckled and the floor tilted sideways.
Everything went black.
Pain came first. Dull and deep, blooming across his ribs like a bruise from the inside out. Then the cold. A sharp bite against the back of his skull, creeping up his spine and into his blood.
Bucky groaned, lifting his head.
Or—trying to.
His body barely responded. The drugs coursing through his veins.
The weight on his wrists was the first warning. Thick, magnetic cuffs bolted into the reinforced wall behind him, holding his arms wide and just above shoulder height. His boots scraped the floor, but he couldn't get leverage. Couldn't stand.
Couldn't reach her.
His eyes snapped open—dull yellow light flickered above, casting a sickly hue over the metal room. The air was sour with sweat, blood, and something he couldn't name.
Then he saw her.
Charlie.
Strapped to a chair bolted to the floor. Arms tied down, ankles locked, chest rising in shallow, uneven breaths. Her head hung low, curls clumped with blood and soot. Her face was bruised, lip split, dried blood trailing down her chin.
His heart twisted violently inside his chest.
"Charlie…"
It came out rough, hoarse—his voice barely there. His throat was raw from gas, from screaming earlier, from desperation.
"Charlie, baby, can you hear me?"
She didn't move.
Panic stabbed through his ribs, sharper than any blade.
"Hey! Wake up. Please—" He yanked at the cuffs, muscles straining, vibranium groaning under the force but not breaking free. "Come on, sweetheart, open your eyes—look at me."
Still nothing.
His breath hitched, chest rising too fast, too hard. She looked so small like that. So fragile. Her now white medical looking clothes soaked with sweat, stained with ash and blood. He could see the curve of an old bruise wrapping under her ribs, a fresh cut on her shoulder.
He clenched his jaw until it ached.
"You're okay. You're gonna be okay. I'm here, alright? You hold on, Charlie. Don't you give up on me. Don't you dare."
Still… silence.
Then—her head twitched.
Just slightly.
His heart leapt to his throat. "Yes. Yes, come on, sweetheart. That's it."
Her lashes fluttered, slow and heavy, before her head tilted a fraction toward his voice. She blinked—barely conscious—but her eyes found him.
Green meeting blue.
Weak, broken, but there.
"Buck…?"
A whisper. Barely audible.
Bucky exhaled shakily. "I'm here. I've got you. Just hold on."
She tried to smile. It hurt to look at—more of a grimace than anything—but it was her.
He couldn't stop the tears that burned into the corners of his eyes.
"I knew you'd come," she murmured, voice trembling.
"Always," he rasped. "I'd tear the world apart for you."
The door groaned open with a hiss of pressure seals and steel dragging against concrete.
Bucky flinched at the sound, his body tensing instinctively. A figure stepped into the light—tall, dressed in black combat fatigues with a sleek, armored vest. No insignia. No rank. Just cold, deliberate precision.
It was him.
The man from the club. The one who had spoken to her at the club. The one who'd watched her like she was a possession.
Only now—he wasn't wearing a mask of civility. His eyes burned with triumph. Smug. Controlled. Cruel.
"Well, well. Look who finally woke up."
Bucky's muscles screamed as he strained against the restraints. "Don't touch her."
The man chuckled and sauntered over to Charlie's chair, circling her like a predator. "But why would I stop now? It's only just getting good."
Charlie stirred, trying to lift her head, but the man gripped her jaw and forced her chin up roughly. She gasped in pain.
"Still breathing. Impressive. You always were a fighter, weren't you? Just like your father."
Bucky's breath caught.
"What the hell do you mean by that?"
The man turned toward Bucky, unhurried. "Ah. Right. That little piece of the puzzle."
He leaned in, smiling with a quiet, sinister glee.
"Your girl's father was never at that funeral."
Bucky froze. A chill raced down his spine.
"We swapped the body before the coffin was sealed," he continued. "The man in the ground was a random nobody—burned, just enough to sell it."
He straightened and paced slowly, speaking as though he were delivering a story over drinks instead of unveiling a horrific web of lies.
"You see, this all started years ago. My father was a Soviet general. You killed him in Berlin. 1989. One of your last jobs as the Winter Soldier before Hydra went underground."
Bucky's jaw clenched. He remembered Berlin. He remembered the screams. But not the faces.
The man's eyes hardened. "You didn't even hesitate. No remorse. No name. Just a target."
"I was eight years old," he added, voice lowering. "And I've spent the last thirty years building this."
He turned to Charlie again and backhanded her sharply across the face.
"Don't!" Bucky roared, metal arm thrashing against the wall. The restraints didn't budge.
Charlie whimpered but kept her eyes closed, blood trickling from her nose now. Her head lolled forward.
"She was never meant to be part of this," the man continued coldly. "But imagine my surprise when I discovered the woman I'd been tracking for months was not only Hydra-adjacent—thanks to dear old dad's secrets—but also happened to teach the nephew of Sam Wilson."
He turned back to Bucky with a grin.
"And then you showed up. James Buchanan Barnes. In the flesh."
He stepped closer.
"I knew right then—this wasn't just revenge anymore. This was poetic."
Bucky's breath rasped out of him in shallow bursts, chest heaving with rage and helplessness. The chains on his wrists were dug so deeply into the concrete he could feel blood slicking beneath the metal. His eyes burned.
The man gave Charlie one more vicious shove to the side of her head—just enough to make her flinch—then stepped away. He didn't even look winded.
"You always thought you were special, didn't you?" he mused, glancing back at Bucky.
He gestured lazily to Charlie's unconscious form, tied to the chair like some discarded science project.
"But you were prototype, Barnes. She was the upgrade."
Bucky's throat closed.
"What are you talking about?"
The man smiled wider, pacing between them now.
"Her father sold her to us."
The words hit like bullets.
"After his work with Hydra started catching the wrong eyes, he needed leverage. Insurance. So he gave them the one thing no one would ever suspect—his daughter."
Charlie stirred faintly. A muffled groan. Her fingers twitched.
Bucky blinked fast, jaw locked, eyes fixed on her as if willing her to wake up.
"They gave her a diluted version of your serum. Refined. Stable. Perfected after… well—you."
The man's voice dropped lower, like he was sharing a bedtime secret.
"And the best part? The memory wipes. So clean. So precise. Not like your shattered mind, Barnes. No, hers were surgical."
He walked behind Charlie and brushed her matted hair aside with mock gentleness.
"Every time she got too close to remembering, they reset her. Every time she got too close to peace, they broke her again."
Bucky's stomach churned violently.
"You've seen it, haven't you?" the man sneered. "The headaches. The gaps in memory."
He chuckled.
"All side effects of a soldier waking up."
"No," Bucky whispered. "She's not… you're lying—"
"She's just like you." The man slammed his fist into the wall beside Bucky's head. "No. She's worse. Because she doesn't even know who she really is."
Charlie whimpered again, a broken sound of pain escaping her lips. Blood ran from a split just above her brow. Her head dropped back.
"You want to save her?" the man asked, straightening.
"Then watch her be destroyed. Just like you were."
He grabbed a scalpel from a nearby tray.
"And don't worry," he added, flicking the blade toward the light. "I'll let you scream with her this time."
He walked back to Charlie, blade raised.
