Downwind. Temperature
between twenty two and twenty four degrees.
No wind. Distance between
one-hundred and one-hundred and three feet.
No sign of competition or outside disturbance. Neck turning to optimum angle in ten to
fifteen seconds. If first strike is a
miss, target to flee at fifteen degree angle. Second strike to be thrown at ten
degree angle to compensate.
Rise, slow and steady.
Raise spear to ear height. Throw
in three, two, one…
Vibrations.
Sounds. Behind me. Far, closing fast.
Helicopter. Target
notices disturbance and breaks for forest.
How did they find me?
Doesn’t matter. Need to
move. Animal-skin gone, leaving obvious
trail. Doesn’t matter. They cannot follow deeper into the
mountains. Storm approaching. Keep moving.
Shapes in peripheral vision.
Black tactical suits. Operatives.
They will not be able to keep up.
Helicopters can.
Military grade. Deep rotor. Likely carrying tactical teams. Keep moving.
Operative, two hundred yards, directly ahead. Woman.
Red-hair. Slight build. Confident stance. Cold eyes.
Soft sound to the left.
Like taught cord whipping. Almost
like a b…
Ow. Arrow in thigh. Tear it out.
Toss it aside. Keep moving.
Misstep. Left leg
weakening. Arrow was envenomed. Can’t do anything about it now. Liver will purge.
Did they really think that was going to stop me? No.
No, not stop me. Slow me. They want to slow me.
Red-head fifty yards out.
She saw the hit. Will play the
weakness. Pistol in quickdraw holster at
hip. When she aims, step left. Jagged attack run. Break wrist to neutralize pistol. Break ankle
to neutralize possible pursuit.
She draws. Quicker
than expected. Step left. Gunshot.
Ow. Wound in right thigh. Keep balance.
She anticipated dodge. She’s
good. No more games. Shoulder tackle. Incapacitate.
Gunshot. Behind. Ow.
Not bullet. Needle cartridge. Toxin or tranquilizer. Won’t stop me. Is slowing me. Damnit.
Helicopters overhead.
Not going to make it to the deeper mountains. Have to stall. Storm will obscure.
Left leg gives out.
Knee hits snow. Powerful
poison. Operatives repelling from
helicopters. Tactical veterans. Elite units.
Well equipped.
Operative steps forward.
Black man. Late forties. Scars.
Eyepatch. Barettas concealed
beneath black trenchcoat. Black ops
veteran. Likely operation leader.
“You haven’t been taking my calls,” he says. He thinks he’s funny. He walks like he thinks he’s funny. He walks like he’s killed a lot people.
I’m falling forward.
Hands hit snow. Breathing labored. Body fighting toxins. I have to say something. Need more time.
“I don’t know…what your C.O. told you,” I say. It’s hard to talk. “But you can’t let them have me. You can’t let them…have my blood. All they want is…to make more weapons. Too…dangerous.”
Shake head. Stay
focused. Hard to stay focused.
“It’s alright,” he says.
He thinks he knows.
Arms give out. Face
hits snow. Cold finally getting to
me. Want to sleep. Badly.
Shouldn’t. Want to.
“Someone get Captain Rogers a blanket,” he says.
Damn.
+ + + + + +
Nick stared at the haggard, feral man chained to a chair in
the interrogation room and marveled at the transformations that had taken
place. An icon of justice and honor
becomes a savage. Long before that, a
skinny young man from Brooklyn becomes the icon. Quite a story.
Nick set down the file in his hand, faceup, letting the
savage see the stamps of security and clearance. He sat down across from his prisoner and
opened the file. He spoke as he flipped
through the pages, reciting as though he were briefing an agent.
“Captain Steven Rogers, born in Brooklyn in 1924. Son of Gary and Martha Rogers. No siblings.
Repeated attempts to enlist in the Army in 1944, under various false
names. Rejected each time for physical
liabilities, ranging from asthama to osteoporosis. Eventually recruited for
Project: Prometheus, of which he became the first, primary, and last test
subject. Testing was resounding success,
with noted and significant genetic enhancements. Project subsequently compromised and
sabotaged by enemy operatives and promptly shut down to prevent further leaks. Captain Rogers deployed into combat
operations to recover the stolen data and cease all duplications of Project:
Prometheus.”
Nick stopped on one page, near the back of the file.
“Last noted operation. 1948. Captain Rogers, along with
black ops team, was deployed in Alberta, Canada, to pursue a lead indicating presence
enemy laboratory. Operation mishandled. Laboratory
and team destroyed. Captain Rogers not
found amongst dead, labeled as AWOL.”
Nick closed the file and looked at Captain Rogers.
“I would say you look great for an 88 year old man,” he
said, “but it’s hard to really tell beneath the hair and the smell.”
Rogers blinked and stared at nothing.
“Why do you think you’re here?” Nick asked.
“Because the world is not enough for some men,” Rogers
answered.
Nick smiled and nodded.
“Right. And wrong. Right, because I agree with the general
sentiment. Wrong, because that’s not why
you’re here.”
A knock at the door.
A young male officer came in, bearing a paper plate. A high quality, perfectly cooked steak sat on
the plate. He set the plate down in
front of Captain Rogers, his nervousness apparent.
“Thanks, Ricky,” Nick said.
“You can go.”
The officer obliged without hesitation or words, leaving the
door open behind him. Nick stood up and
straightened his shirt beneath his trench coat.
“Steak was the closest thing to elk I had lying around,” he
said. “I’m going to step out of this
room and give you a few moments of freedom in here so you can eat and think
about something.”
Nick paused, looking for the right words.
“Your file says nothing about why you ran, Steven,” he
said. “I have my suspicions though. I think you’re a good man. I think good men can’t stomach the things bad
men do to further their own aims. It’s
an admirable quality, and one I think we share.
But you ran, Steven. You ran,
rather than try to fix this.”
That earned a glare from Rogers.
“The problem’s only gotten worse, Captain,” Fury
continued. “A little over twenty years
ago, I was asked by a good man to clean up the mess that is your unintended
legacy. I’ve done what I can, but unlike
you, I’m only human. You’re here because
I want your help to fix this. Enjoy your
food. I’ll be back soon.”
+ + + + +
Nick stepped from the room and found Agent Romanov and Agent
Barton waiting for him. They were still
dressed for the operation. Never an off
switch for those two. Nick shut the door
and turned to face Rogers through the one-way mirror. He pressed a few buttons on a security
console, and the remotely operated restrained disengaged. He watched Captain Rogers free himself, get
up, and stretch. Eventually, the feral
man picked up the steak with one hand and bit into it. He ate like an animal fueling itself, rather
than a desperate, starving man. In
seconds, the steak was gone.
“Ricky,” Nick called down the hallway. “Three more steaks.”
“You inviting us to lunch, Commander?” Barton asked in his
sly, elusive tone.
“Not for us,” Nick replied.
“For him. If he has one weakness,
it’s that his body needs a ton of fuel.”
“That could be a liability in the field, sir,” Romanov
said. Impressively, she managed to keep
all sense of her mistrust of Rogers out of her tone.
“Your objections to this course of action have already been
noted, Natasha,” Nick responded.
“Understood, sir,” she said.
“Orders?”
Always the impatient one, Nick thought. Always ready for the next assignment.
“You’re not going to like them,” he said.
“Natasha loves her marching orders, sir,” Barton commented.
“Well, Captain Rogers has inspired me,” Nick said. “We’re upgrading the soldier. Might as well upgrade the equipment as
well. When was the last time either of
you did any reading up on Tony Stark?”
Natasha’s eyes narrowed.
“Told you you wouldn’t like them,” Nick said with a wry
smile.
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