Chasing Ghosts Part I
Present Day
Camp Atwater
Decommissioned U.S. Army Induction Center, Northwest Missouri
The former Camp Atwater had been built in 1916, during the military buildup before the United States' entry into World War One. It served as a recruitment hub for the central Midwest, then as a training camp between the wars, and again as a recruiting hub in the Second World War. According to historical records that Barnes had uncovered, it was decommissioned in 1946 and transferred to Strategic Scientific Reserve, the precursor of S.H.I.E.L.D., as a processing center for German scientists given amnesty in America under Operation: Paperclip.
Interesting.
Barnes pressed the button on the remote, and three of the slab-sided concrete buildings in the center of the facility exploded into massive fireballs.
What the public records did not show was that S.H.I.E.L.D. had kept the facility open for many years after its final, official closing in 1965 as a temporary holding area for dangerous persons of interest, and that, still later, HYDRA had secretly converted it into a logistical hub for its operations in Central America.
The fires were intense and would burn for several hours, ensuring none of the equipment, files, or HYDRA operatives inside would survive. After watching for a few minutes, Barnes turned to face the passenger in his commandeered cargo truck. The pale, balding man with square bifocals stared back, quivering in terror as Barnes glared at him.
"Patrick Daniel McAllister. Joined S.H.I.E.L.D.'s logistics division two years ago. Recruited by HYDRA eight months later. Assigned here as a planner. You're responsible for scheduling supply runs to every HYDRA base in North America."
Barnes slapped a children's map of the U.S.A. he'd acquired at a family restaurant where he'd eaten two days prior down onto the bench seat between them, and held out a short pencil he'd taken from the public library two towns over. "You have one minute to circle the locations you know about on this map."
McAllister was shaking so hard he could barely breathe. "Y-you have the wrong- Wrong man! I swear! I'm a l-loyal S.H.I.E.L.D. agent!"
Glancing at the digital clock on the dashboard, Barnes scooted a few inches across the seat. "I don't work for S.H.I.E.L.D.. I'm going to kill you in fifty-five seconds, whether you tell me what I want to know or not. The only difference is, if you do help me, it'll be painless. If you don't...."
The hapless supply officer swallowed audibly, and after another few seconds' thought, leaned over and started circling places on the map. After the first two, he hesitated, pencil shaking in his hand. Barnes frowned. "Twenty-nine."
McAllister scrambled to circle five more places, and even quickly jotted down four more in Mexico and Canada, with arrows pointing off the borders of the cartoony map. When he was finished, Barnes snatched the paper placemat back and folded it into a pocket in his body armor. He leveled a cold look at his prisoner. "Thank you, for your cooperation."
He reached over, smothering the man's scream with his flesh and blood hand.
CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS
Present Day
FBI Field Office, Omaha, Nebraska
Three Months after the fall of S.H.I.E.L.D.
Steve dropped into an uncomfortable armchair next to Rhodey with a sigh.
"No luck, huh?" The colonel asked, passing Cap a paper cup of water.
"Nothing," Steve said, tilting his head back and staring at the fluorescent lights overhead. They'd intercepted a busload of HYDRA techs and field analysts trying to flee the country into Canada two days earlier. The higher-ups had all poisoned themselves once they ran out of ammunition, but almost two dozen of the lower level personnel had been taken into custody. Agent Howard's interrogators weren't getting much out of them, however. Apparently, HYDRA had assimilated S.H.I.E.L.D.'s obsessive compartmentalization techniques. Most of the operatives they'd caught didn't know key details of projects they'd been assigned to, or know where such projects were based outside of the small pieces for which they were actually responsible. "We're wasting our time with this batch."
Rhodes grunted. "Well, we stopped them from getting out of the country, at least. Maybe we'll get something useful out of them. Eventually."
Steve shrugged, too tired to care. They'd been hunting for signs of HYDRA-and Bucky-for three months. They'd made a good start on HYDRA, but aside from the near miss in Cleveland, he was no closer to catching up to Bucky than when he'd started. He'd gotten an email from Rayburn's office in the Pentagon that morning telling him that all the preparations for getting Bucky help and official status with the Army were finished. Bucky had a home to return to, if Steve could just find him.
Rhodes' cell phone buzzed on the coffee table by their legs. Rhodes glanced at the screen before answering it. "Hey, Tony. Yeah, he's right here. He had to turn his phone off during the interrogation- When? Hold on, I'm putting you on speaker."
Steve sat up at the shift in Rhodey's voice. "Tony?"
"Got something for you, Cap, it just came across the FBI wire. Someone blew an old Army base in Missouri sky high last night. Retired office building and two barracks. Looks like they were fronts for S.H.I.E.L.D. black ops."
"Was anybody inside them?" Rhodey asked, shooting Steve a dark glance. S.H.I.E.L.D. black ops almost certainly meant HYDRA black ops.
"About eight." Tony answered. "No IDs yet, but one other was found in a ditch about half a mile away."
"Dead?" Steve asked.
"No, actually. Tied up with duct tape, and acting like he'd seen a ghost. Kept babbling about a map."
Sam walked into the room with Agent Doyle. Steve flagged him down. "Go get Agent Howard. We're moving out." He turned back to Tony's face on the phone's small screen. "Any clues on the culprit?"
He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice, but probably missed by a mile.
"No evidence at all, which I thought you'd find interesting. Though, the local LEOs made a big deal about some finger shaped bruises on the survivor's arm, so I'm thinking that's either from metal fingers...or they at least got to first base." Tony smirked.
Steve shared a patient glance with Rhodes, who only shrugged. "Thanks, Tony, we'll check in soon."
"Oh, Cap? Tell Wilson to plug his wings into the tablet sometime tomorrow. I have a software upgrade for him."
Steve grinned, shaking his head. Stark was always tinkering. "Thanks, Tony."
CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS
James couldn't breathe. The cryo-stasis chamber was so cold his teeth were chattering. He beat on the inside of the hatch, frantically trying to get out.
Please!
His own face stared back at him through the small triangular window.
How many have you killed?
The cold was closing in, colder than before. His lungs would freeze any second. James slammed his fists into the metal shell harder. It wasn't me! It was you!
The Soldier's voice spoke right next to his ear. I am you.
James gasped and jerked himself upright on the bed, eyes darting around the room. It was so cold that goosebumps were forming on the bare skin of his arm. His gaze swept over the area, landing on the air conditioning unit. He frowned and slowly staggered off the bed to turn it off. He didn't remember air conditioning being so effective in his past, but then, many things had changed while he'd been the Soldier.
He pulled on the hoodie he'd tossed over the end of the bed, and sank back down onto the mattress with a groan. He just wanted to sleep. He'd give almost anything to be able to sleep more than an hour at a time. But, it had been two weeks and the nightmares hadn't stopped.
They came in waves. First, formless shapes, sometimes chasing him, sometimes smothering him. Then, if he persisted in trying to sleep, the faces. He didn't know them. Some appeared like photographs, some he saw in full, real-live color. They were the faces of people the Winter Soldier had killed-that he had killed-he was sure of that much. Sometimes he saw the men who'd made him. Round glasses, smirking faces, sharp knives, needles, blood. Arnim Zola. He'd found the name in history books. It had taken several tries to find a reference to him in a World War Two manuscript-ironically a biography of one of Captain America's Howling Commandos. Zola was the HYDRA scientist that Captain America had captured from a moving train in the Alps.
But, Barnes knew Zola as more than that. The memories had started coming back to him as soon as he saw the photograph. Quick glimpses at first, but the more vivid memories had come to him in his nightmares. He remembered a lab, men in white coats, electronic equipment. The latter seemed to vary from memory to memory. He wondered how many years they'd worked on him to make him what he was. Or perhaps he was remembering different periods, in between being frozen in the chamber.
He didn't like thinking about the cryo-chamber.
James wanted to remember. He didn't like the faces of the dead that appeared in his sleep, but he'd found that if he focused on an objective, it was easier to function. His handlers had taught him how. Emotions were sloppy, distracting. Emotions got in the way. Order. Order was the path. The mission.
He hated his handlers. Hated HYDRA. Hated what they'd done to him. But, during that first, awful week after the Smithsonian...he'd had to admit that their brutal methods were effective. He was a soldier. He was the Soldier. A soldier didn't feel pain, or regret. Didn't scream himself hoarse over things he couldn't change. Didn't sit up nights with a gun pointed at his head, praying for things he'd never receive. No, a soldier was above such things. A soldier would take what his handlers had given him and use it against them. Point that gun at HYDRA.
James was a Soldier.
But, despite the emotional turmoil his memories sometimes provoked, he wanted to know more. Needed to. Books had helped trigger some, mostly of his early life. Bits and pieces. Surprisingly, most of it was connected to Rogers in some way. Steve Rogers was firmly imprinted on an impressive chunk of his youth. Sometimes studying Rogers helped uncover things he needed to know about himself. He'd gone back and walked through the museum exhibit every day until he'd memorized every panel and picture. He'd found a dozen books about Rogers. Some were more helpful than others. He'd read and reread one that seemed to work better. It was a more recent publication, with a more nuanced approach to the raw historical data, not as laced with patriotic nostalgia as the earlier works. It had even briefly covered Rogers' return and the Battle of New York.
He wasn't quite sure why the concept of alien life unsettled him so much. It wasn't all that important, though.
James gave up trying to sleep, again, and turned over onto his belly, feet propped on the headboard. He picked up a pencil and one of his notepads and started to write. He usually didn't write words, just let the pencil glide over the paper. After a while-sometimes-some of the ice in his brain would melt, and he'd remember something new. He just needed to let the pencil roam.
CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS
October 1943
Salzburgerland, Austria
When Bucky's head stopped throbbing enough for him to think coherent thoughts, he rolled slowly onto his stomach on the concrete floor of his cell. It was easier to breathe, that way. His muscles ached, not just from the beating he'd taken that morning, but from whatever they'd injected him with that afternoon. His veins had been burning at first, then the pain spread deeper. He bit his lip to keep a groan from escaping, lest his guards hear and come for him again.
Slowly, silently, he reached for the small crack in the stone wall, edging his fingers inside carefully until he found it. The little, light brown piece of wrapping paper had just been lying on the lab floor. Just a scrap of garbage no one even knew was there. Bucky pulled the paper out, then reached back in and found the small pencil he'd swiped off one of the desks in the last examination room. The Germans who staffed the prison obviously didn't know how two poor boys got by in Depression-era Brooklyn. Gotta lock your stuff up better than that, Fritzy.
He chuckled softly to himself. It wasn't much of a victory over his abusive captors, but he'd take what he could get. The preceding two weeks had been hellish. Ever since his pneumonia symptoms had mysteriously disappeared, the guards had been dragging him to a different laboratory every day, as soon as he woke up. Sometimes they'd be beating on him before that, and he'd wake to flurries of fists and boots. Each day brought a new nightmare. Needles, electric shocks, potions poured down his throat, pressure chambers, question after question about the most irrational things.
Read the smallest line on that chart.
Can you hear this sound?
How much pain does this cause? Be specific, please. And now this?
Try to break the bonds holding your wrists. Try harder.
What are you feeling now?
Do you feel stronger or weaker today?
On and on. None of it made sense. Everything he said or did was dutifully written down. When he refused to answer, the guards made him. In between sessions, they'd knock him around. It didn't even seem related to anything he'd done or not done, just as though they were merely passing the time.
The thing that made him feel ill was that, despite the insanity of it all, the tests and experiments-he knew that they were experiments, he just didn't know for what-seemed to be reaching a crescendo. Like there was a final destination for all the pain and suffering he'd endured. Bucky knew that destination was close.
He pressed the pencil to the paper.
Dear Steve
Bucky hesitated, tears forming in his eyes. He shook it off with a bitter snort.
I don't know why I'm writing this, since I don't think you'll ever see it. But I have to try. My unit was captured in Northern Italy by some special Kraut division. They have guns and tanks like none of us have ever heard of, like stuff H.G. Wells would write about, or that nutball Stark we saw at the Expo would try to invent.
That night seems like years ago, but I know it couldn't be. I don't know what they want with us with me, but I think they're getting close. I don't know if I'll ever see you again Steve. Maybe if Sister Francis was right I will someday. I'm glad it's not now though because I wouldn't want you to see me like this.
He paused again. He didn't know how to say it.
I guess what I'm trying to say is goodby-
The cell door opened. Bucky quickly tossed the pencil into a corner and slipped the paper into the waistband of his pants. He kept his face as still as possible, hoping the guards wouldn't notice. It had to be hard to see out of those goggles they always wore, so he might get lucky.
Two guards entered, a third stayed outside, like always. They hauled him to his feet and dragged him out of the cell. At first, he'd forced them to drag him just to make it difficult on them. Later, it was because he actually couldn't walk in a straight line and they were unwilling to wait for him to get his feet under him. Bucky had memorized the route down the hallways. A right turn out of the cell, then another right, then a left-
They didn't turn left today. The guards took him to the right instead, away from the cluster of labs, into a dimly lit area with walls made of red brick. Bucky was only vaguely aware of his new surroundings. He was too busy trying to control the pain in his limbs. His body ached more than usual, and the guards' tight grips were aggravating it.
The temperature was suddenly much warmer, and Bucky raised his head to see that they were in a large room lined with thick brick columns. Smokestacks. They must be near the boiler room, or whatever powered the factory. These Germans had incredibly better technology than anything he'd seen anywhere.
The lead guard turned and stared at him for a long moment, then lifted the hem of the ragged sweater Bucky wore and plucked the folded piece of paper from his waistband. He moved slowly, making sure Bucky was watching as he stepped over to what seemed to be an incinerator. The guard tossed the letter in, then jerked his head toward the door. Bucky's heart sank as a small puff of smoke escaped the hatch cover, marking the destruction of the letter. He was fairly certain he wouldn't get another chance, however slim it had been, to get a message out to Steve.
The guards continued out the door and down another brick-walled hallway. Garish green light from the other end made it look like something out of some twisted version of the Emerald City. Bucky remembered watching The Wizard of Oz in the theater with Steve, on one of their infrequent double dates. He couldn't remember the girls' names anymore. Not surprising, really, since the snobby twins turned their noses up every time Steve spoke. That had been enough for Bucky to give up on the date part.
He and Steve had ignored them after a while and just watched the movie.
They turned left into a large, chilly room. Desks and filing cabinets lined the walls. There were a few chairs, a couple of large windows overlooking the factory courtyard. Floodlights outside cast long shadows over the floor.
By far the worst sight was the table. It stood near the center of the room, flanked with equipment, tables, a large hospital-style operating room light, and an object that looked to Bucky like the telescope one of his parents' neighbors had let him play with one summer. Only this was gigantic, almost as large as the table, hooked to a boxy machine. Wires and hoses dangled off of it, connecting who knew what gizmos together. The smaller end was pointed at the table, round with several pointy emitters in the center. Just looking at it made Bucky's skin crawl. What on Earth were they going to do to him, now?
"Ah! Sergeant Barnes, I presume?"
The voice came from a desk on the right side of the room. A short, pudgy man with round glasses and a high forehead was holding a clipboard and looking at him.
"On the examination table, please."
Bucky was none too gently forced up onto the table on his back, and four heavy straps were pulled across his body, at his chest, waist, knees and ankles. He wasn't getting off the table any time soon. The guards stepped away out of sight, and the short man appeared at Bucky's left, still perusing papers on the clipboard.
Bucky shifted his eyes to the ceiling and kept them there. He wouldn't show this new man the fear that was building inside. "Barnes, James. Sergeant. 3-2-5-5-7-"
"Yes, yes," the man said, frowning down at him. "I know all this."
The man went back to reading. A few minutes went by before he spoke again. "You have proven quite resilient during the previous testing. I am honored to inform you, Mr. Barnes, that you have been selected for a very special program. You will become the new face of HYDRA."
He looked pleased. Bucky looked at him like he was insane. He'd never help the enemy. Offended at the suggestion, Bucky growled out his name and rank once more. "Barnes, James. Sergeant. 3-2-5-5-7-"
"We are wasting time!" The small man said, seeming irritated. Bucky was mildly pleased that he'd managed to get under the little man's skin.
After a moment, the man regained his composure and smiled again. "Let us begin, yes?"
Bucky repeated his name, rank and serial number, and obstinately kept it up, even and the machines were turned on and he spent hours on end screaming.
CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS
James woke to a pop. He glanced around in confusion for a moment. He was lying face down on the bed, on top of his notes. When he looked to his right, he found the source of the sound. He'd snapped the pencil in two in his fist.
He blinked. He hadn't realized he'd fallen asleep again. The memory of Zola's lab stayed with him, however. Zola's procedures had continued for more than a week before Rogers had found and rescued him. Most days were the same sequence. Dozens of injections in his arms, legs, and chest, followed by the big machine that blasted him with some kind of bright light. It made his whole body burn. Sometimes the blasts of energy went on for hours.
Zola had been unmoved by his screams and pleas for it to stop, he recalled that very clearly. He'd only been told it was for a higher purpose. Scientific advancement can often be a painful process, Sergeant.
He flexed his metal fingers, the servos whirring softly, beneath him on the bed. Some higher purpose....
James discarded the broken pencil and started to push himself up off the bed when he saw the pad. One word was on the paper, the last letter distorted when the pencil cracked.
S-T-E-V-E.
CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS
Present Day
Nodaway Country Sheriff's Department
Maryville, Missouri
"All right, let's go through this again. A man grabbed you by the gate of the Army base, and forced you into a truck..." Agent Howard sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Then what happened?"
From behind the two-way glass, Steve watched the man, McAllister, fidget with the pen and paper he'd been provided to make his statement. The local sheriff's deputies had found him tied up in a ditch, the only survivor of the burned out base. Thus far, however, all he'd done was provide a dozen different reasons why he was innocent and how his job at the secret S.H.I.E.L.D. base was nothing but "number crunching."
"He wanted me to point out other S.H.I.E.L.D. bases on a map. He was crazy! He told me he'd kill me if I didn't do what he said."
"He wanted to know about other S.H.I.E.L.D. bases?" Agent Howard asked, making a note on his legal pad.
"That's right."
"Are you sure about that?" Howard asked, looking over his reading glasses at McAllister. "Are you sure he wasn't asking about HYDRA bases?"
McAllister blinked. "Um...HYDRA? What-what's HYDRA?"
Steve smirked. That alone proved the man was a liar. A bad one. Chapter One of the SHIELD handbook was titled The Red Skull, Founder of HYDRA. When he'd joined up after New York, Steve had sent in several suggested edits to Human Resources for the next edition.
Howard pressed forward. "While were on this topic, would you like to explain to me how a S.H.I.E.L.D. logistics officer was working on a S.H.I.E.L.D. base that was closed down in 1965?"
"Uh...well, clearly, it wasn't. The agency kept many locations off the books," McAllister said, nervously removing his glasses and wiping the lenses.
"Mm-hmm," Howard nodded. "And of those 'off book locations,' how many were actually HYDRA bases, Mr. McAllister?"
"H-how would I know? I'm-I mean, I'm just a supply clerk...."
"Man, can this guy get any more transparent?" Rhodey asked from Steve's left.
Sam, on his right, shook his head. "He might as well have 'HYDRA Lackey' tattooed on his forehead."
Steve frowned. He touched the button that let him speak into Howard's earpiece. "Mike, focus on the man in the truck."
Howard switched gears without any hesitation. "All right, let's put a pin in that for now, okay Patrick? Talk to me about this assailant of yours. Strange man you don't know grabs you and throws you in his truck. Who was he? You hear any names? What did he look like? Paint me a picture."
"Oh, okay...well, he was white. And he had, uh, dark hair...and he was wearing all black. His eyes were..." McAllister shuddered a bit. "He looked insane! And he was fast. God, I've never seen anyone move like that. He went over the base fence like it wasn't even there. I saw like a...like he had a metal glove, or something on his left hand. Um...oh! I kept hearing this...I don't know, a whirring noise? When his arms moved. Sounded like a machine moving."
Steve sighed. He touched the button again. "Thanks, Mike." He released the control and cursed under his breath, stepping away from the window.
"It does sound like Barnes," Sam admitted quietly, keeping back while Steve paced.
"That's a good thing, though. Right?" Rhodey added. "He's going after HYDRA just like we are."
"It's not if he gets caught again. We've got backup, he doesn't." Steve retorted.
"Well, this is what they trained him to do," Sam said.
"Even the Winter Soldier had backup. Even if they were only well-paid mercs," Steve countered. He slammed his fist into the wall by the door, palm flat so he didn't dent the drywall. "Damn it! Why doesn't he just come to us."
He saw Sam glance at Rhodes, but neither of them spoke. The door opened, revealing Agent Howard in the hallway.
"Hey, Cap, can we talk? In private."
Steve glanced at the others, but followed the agent out the door and down the hallway. "You get anything out of McAllister?"
"We will," Howard answered, keeping his eyes forward. "He's in over his head and he knows it. Won't take long to crack."
They stopped and entered an empty office near the back of the building. Howard gestured for Steve to sit in front of the bare desk, and took a seat against the wall. He folded his arms with a pensive look on his face. "You know, I was reading something a while back that said that Cable news is losing its audience. People are getting news off the Internet these days. But, do you know when Cable news ratings spike? When big, bad things happen. 9/11, Katrina, Battle of New York...when someone starts a war in the District of Columbia."
Steve frowned. "I'm...not sure I see where you're going with this, Mike."
Howard pursed his lips. "I'm just wondering when you're going to read me in about the guy with the metal arm."
Steve's face fell. "Mike, look, it's classified-"
"Guy shoots up the Anacostia Freeway and has a running gunfight with you, Romanoff, and Wilson out there, now he's blowing up old Army bases that are almost certainly secret HYDRA facilities, and I'm willing to bet our mystery assassin in Cleveland is the same man. Tell me I'm wrong, Steve."
"You're not," Steve conceded, frowning as he weighed how much he should say next. He had kept the FBI in the dark, but if Bucky was nearby, they needed to know, for their own safety as well as his. "He's a-he was a prisoner. Alexander Pierce used him as an assassin against his will. I'm trying to find him and bring him in."
Howard nodded, all business. He was surprisingly unfazed. "Threat level?"
"High," Steve allowed. "But, not against us. I think right now he's just after the people that used him."
"So, if we run into him out here, what's the plan? Do my people apprehend him?"
"No," Steve said. "Me, Sam, or Rhodey. I don't think he'd hurt any of your people, but if he thinks he's backed into corner...."
Agent Howard frowned. "Is he unstable, or-" He broke off and looked at Steve. "You don't know."
Steve could only shake his head.
"Ah, shit, Steve." Howard laid his head back against the wall. "We have a loose cannon on the board."
"Mike, I'm sorry I didn't tell you about this. It's classified...from the top. We can't let HYDRA know that their 'asset,'" Steve got a bad taste in his mouth at the word. "Is still out there. And, frankly, after D.C. I didn't want anyone taking a shot at him when we did find him."
Howard sighed, rubbing his forehead. "All right. I get it. Look, I'll have to tell my agents something, even if it's just a description so that if we do run into him we can pull back and call you in."
Steve nodded gratefully. "That's fair. Mike, I would have told you if I could-"
"This isn't my first joint op with the military, Cap," Howard smiled. "I think you guys come with rolls of red tape as standard issue equipment."
Before he could respond, Steve's Starkphone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he saw a text from Roy McCrerey. Need you at the White House, ASAP.
Odd. He'd been communicating with the White House electronically, for the most part, since leaving the East Coast.
He looked up at Howard. "I have to get to Washington. What's your next move here, Mike?"
Howard took the change of subject in stride and nodded toward the door. "We're still waiting on forensics to finish checking the site. And I need to take another swipe at our clerk out there. We won't be leaving for a couple of days, I think."
"All right," Steve stood. "Sam and Rhodey will be here to help. I'll get back as soon as I can."
He stepped out into the hall and dialed McCrerey.
The aide seemed mildly excited when he answered. "Hello, Captain."
"Mr. McCrerey. What's going on?"
"The President had a visit this afternoon. I can't go into it, even on a secure line. But he wants to see you as soon as you can get here."
That seemed ominous. Steve checked his watch. "Okay, I can grab a flight out-"
"Don't worry about that. There's a C-40 waiting at Kansas City International. It'll fly you here and back. Just get to the airport and we'll take it from there."
Steve acknowledged that and hung up, then went to find Sam and Rhodey. They were waiting outside the observation booth of the interrogation room. Steve motioned with his phone. "I've got to go to D.C.. Something's up. You guys should stay here, help the agents investigate this base fire. I had to tell Mike about Bucky. Just the bullet points. I, uh...I'd prefer...."
"No details. We hear ya, Steve." Sam said. Rhodes agreed.
"Thanks," Steve said, gratefully. "I'll call you when I know what's going on."
CAP WS CAP WS CAP WS
Present Day
Super 8 Motel
Maryville, Missouri
Sam fumbled with his motel key a little, trying to balance his takeout bag in one hand and drink in the other. He and Rhodes were taking turns staying on site with the FBI team, and it was Sam's time to grab a late dinner and sleep for a few hours.
Steve's probably in D.C. by now, poor guy. Rogers hadn't been sleeping well. The search for Bucky was taking a toll on him that even fighting his way through HYDRA rat holes couldn't. Maybe flying out on one of the Air Force's notoriously boring transports would be enough to knock him out for a few hours.
The lock finally clicked, and Sam kicked open the door. He dropped his key and the food on the table and was two steps inside when something gripped the back of his neck and slammed him face-first into the wall behind the door. He scrambled for the gun he was carrying under his jacket, but before he could reach it his arm was twisted painfully behind his back. Sam yelped, but his attacker didn't seem to care whether or not he pulled Sam’s shoulder out of its socket.
The feeling of the muzzle of a handgun being pressed against his skull was unmistakable.
"Where is he?"
TBC
A/N: I'm pretty sure that Zola said "new FIST of Hydra" in the film, which made sense in the context of Bucky's new metal arm. I chose "face" here, for a reason. In CA: The First Avenger, there is clearly an issue with Schmidt's physical appearance. He wears a mask to cover it, and takes great offense at the name "Red Skull." For the purposes of this story, I think Zola's super-soldier program would not only give Hydra a powerful army, but also provide the world a more acceptable face in the form of Bucky, rather than Schmidt. Bucky's conversion to their cause would be a massive PR victory for Hydra. That's my story and I'm sticking to it!