The stars were out, just visible in a night sky bleached brown by the ambient glow of the city. But there was no air traffic: no winking running lights of passenger jets leaving the airports or stacking up over the city to land.
Runciter had told him that Civil Aviation had declared no-fly because of the crises in the U.S. and Russia. Nothing was moving internationally. Increasing problems with communication and global data traffic had grounded the airlines for safety reasons alone.
“Anything new?” he asked, knowing that she’d have told him if there was.
“From the U.S.?” She shook her head. “It’s still dead. Nothing from S.H.I.E.L.D. stateside or the Avengers. We’re not even getting private traffic or individual operators. The problem’s spread to Canada and South America.”
“How long before Bridge recommends an eyeball look at the situation?” asked Cap.
“He’s liaising with government organizations and U.S. bases in Europe. A flight’s gone into London to see what’s happening there. A couple of hours, and he’ll authorize a transatlantic mission—whether our European partners approve of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s plan or not.”
“I want to be on that flight,” said Cap.
“Man, you can’t be everywhere,” she said. She strapped on her ballistic vest and shoulder rig. “You’re here, Steve. We’re doing this. If you plan on saving the world, do it a little at a time.”
“Three minutes,” the pilot radioed. There was a sudden drop in noise. The pilot had switched to whisper mode, and the copter was banking down toward the high-rise district. One Thousand One Riechstahl was an impressive eighteen-floor block built along proud, prewar styles.
Cap strapped his shield across his back.
“Rooftop, fifteen meters,” he said to the pilot. The pilot nodded. Cap took off his earphones and tucked an earbud under his mask.
“Hear me?” asked Runciter.
“Loud and clear.”
Cap unstrapped and slid open the side door, letting in the night air and the whicker of the stealth rotors.
“See you on the far side,” he said.
“Get Strucker,” she replied.
He jumped out of the copter. Straight drop into the night, down onto the building’s flat roof. He rolled with the landing, came up on his feet, and ran to the edge of the illuminated rooftop. There was a roof door, but that would probably be linked to the building’s alarm system. Strucker would have chosen the place carefully—and probably set up trips of his own.
Runciter had compiled a list of residents. Most checked out. There was a large apartment on the eleventh and twelfth floors that had no listed occupants, but had been rented anonymously for eight weeks through a foreign brokerage company.
On the roof edge, Cap played out the nylon line he had wound around his waist. He secured the end to the roof blocks with a little fusion spike that slid into the stone as if it were butter. A second to let it cool and set, a test tug, and then he was over the edge, fast-roping down the side of the apartment building.
“Looking good,” said Runciter in his ear.
“You got eyes on me?”
“Confirm that. You’re just passing thirteen.”
“Understood.”
Twelfth floor. There was a parapet. The windows were dark. Cap got his feet on the ledge and let go of the rope. He checked the first window. Through it, he could see an open-plan lounge—modernist, unlit. The window was fixed. No opener.
He moved along to the next window. It looked into the same room. This window wasn’t fixed. He checked the seal and spotted the tiny contact breaker glued to the edge of the frame. A contact breaker on a twelfth-floor window. That was Hydra-level paranoia.
“Cap?”
“Working,” he replied.
He went back to the fixed window and took a suction grip and a pen-sized laser cutter out of his kit-belt. He stuck the grip to the center of the pane, held it, and then drew a circle on the glass with the lit tip of the cutter. A circular section of glass the size of his shield pushed in cleanly on the grip. He lowered it inside and laid it flat on top of a sideboard under the window. Then he stooped in through the hole.
“Making entry,” he said.
“Copy that.”
He stepped off the sideboard and onto the white rug. The room was dark and quiet. He could make out an L-shaped sofa, an armchair, and spare expressionist prints in black frames on the walls. He touched the cowl of the pendant designer grate. It was cold.
Next door was an austere kitchen-diner, broad and spacious, with double-aspect windows. Cap checked for signs of motion detectors or listening devices. He touched the coffee maker, the halogen hob, and the designer tap over the sink. Cold, cold, and cold. He opened the immense refrigerator and stood bathed in its blue light. A carton of eggs, a tub of health-drink mixture, fruit juice. The juice was open and not expired.
“Someone’s been living here,” he said.
“Copy.”
Off the kitchen there was a hallway with a closet bathroom and access to the building’s elevator. The security panel beside the elevator was turned off.
There were stairs to the level below. Cap saw that the lights were on.
“Going dark,” he whispered. “I think someone’s here.”
“Copy.”
Shield braced on his arm, he edged down the stairs.
A bedroom, dark. Bed unmade, just a bare mattress. Another bedroom, just like the first.
The light was on in the third, master bedroom. The bed was made with military precision, but it had been slept in. Six expensive suits hung in the closet, with a stack of shirts still in their laundry wrappers. A suitcase lay open on the chair beside the bed, a few items in it. Had someone started packing to leave and then given up?
Cap moved back to the hall. As an afterthought, he turned, knelt down, and looked under the bed.
Nothing.
Cap smiled to himself sheepishly. Hydra’s paranoia was infectious. And it would have been somehow miserably pathetic if, after all these years of fighting, he’d finally brought Strucker to justice by finding him hiding under his own damned bed.
Across from the bedroom was a sitting room, also done up in a serious, modernist style. Doors led through to a main dining room.
The light was on. There was an impressive eighteen-seat table. No one had used the room for a dinner party in a while. The table was covered with files, laptops, aluminum carry cases, maps, and plastic crates full of brand-new handguns and ammunition. In the middle of the table was a chrome device about the size of a large soda bottle. It stood upright on extended legs. Cap knew it had to be the missing dispersal-unit prototype.
Wolfgang von Strucker was sitting at the head of the table, calmly facing Cap.
“I heard you come in,” he said. “I saw you.” He gestured to a laptop open beside him. “Under the bed? Really?”
“I wouldn’t put anything past you, Strucker,” Cap replied. He said the name clearly so that Runciter would hear it. He kept the shield ready, tensed to throw. Strucker was at the other end of the room, but Cap knew he could take him down with one accurate sling.
Strucker was full of tricks, however. A powerful laser pistol lay on the table beside the laptop. Strucker made no attempt to reach for it. What was the game here? The windows behind Strucker were wide open to the night.
Was he intending to jump? To attempt an escape?
Strucker had a cut over one eye that he had sutured with a field kit, and his face showed bruises and other marks from their battle. His suit and shirt were clean and fresh. He had not bothered with a tie.
“I didn’t believe there was any point in running,” said Strucker. “Another chase?” He shrugged dismissively. “What would be the reason? You are dogged, Captain. And S.H.I.E.L.D., I’m sure, has the building surrounded and the exits covered. You found me. That was impressive work.”
“I just followed the trail of slime,” said Cap.
Strucker laughed.
“Ah, the banter! I had forgotten how old-fashioned you were. Just not very good at it. This isn’t the nineteen-forties any more, sir. Or would you like me to slap your face with a glove for your impudence?”
“I’ll pass.”
Strucker sat back, utterly unthreatening in his body language. Cap didn’t like how calm he was.
“Time is short, Captain,” he said. “Perilously short. For all of us. I had hoped to clear out of here and depart. I had a goal in mind for the next stage of my operation. Your arrival has ended that hope. So we will play it out here. The beginning. The end. The whole affair.”
“You’re under arrest, Strucker,” said Cap.
“I’m really not,” Strucker smiled.
“You’re under arrest and unconscious, then,” said Cap, tilting his shield very slightly.
“I’ll tell you what I am,” said Strucker. “I am a free man. And the new master of the world. And the world will thank me, on bended knees, for becoming its master.”
“I’ve heard it all before.”
“I’ve meant it every time. This time, it is absolute.”
“You’re issuing a threat,” said Cap. He gestured to the dispersal unit. “That thing. You’re going to release your pathogen. You’re going to release it unless we agree to your demands. You’re holding Berlin to ransom.”
“To ransom? A threat?” Strucker lifted his head back and laughed. “No, no, my dear Captain. Not at all. Threats and negotiations are far too old-fashioned for this day and age.”
Cap took a step forward.
“Then what—”
He suddenly realized that the chrome device on the table was ticking very softly. Strucker held up his index finger.
“Don’t spoil the moment, Captain,” he said.
There was a click. A thin vapor gusted from the top of the device and filled the dining room with a fine mist.
“Pop,” said Strucker. “You are dead, Captain. So are the inhabitants of this building. So are the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents at the doors. So are the people on the street below. So is Berlin. Hail Hydra.”
THIRTEEN
69˚ 30’ SOUTH, 68˚30’ WEST
09.40 LOCAL, JUNE 12TH
SHE PLOWED into them, firing both pistols. There was no time to be delicate. She had ten rounds in the gun in her left hand, and five remaining in the one in her right. Suppressed slugs slammed into body masses and punctured visor grills. Men toppled away from her. One of them got off a burst with his FN P90, but he was already dead and falling, and the trigger-pull was a nerve spasm. The shots raked into the corridor ceiling, punching ugly holes in the yellow-polymer finish.
Her pistols emptied abruptly; the slides locked back. She took down the last A.I.M. guard with a punishing spin-kick that slammed him across the hall and into the opposite wall.
No time to reload. She thumbed the stops to release the slides and jammed her Glocks back into her holsters. Then she stamped on the butt of one of the fallen P90s. The compact bullpup spun into the air and she caught it.
A second A.I.M. squad rounded the end of the hallway.
Widow settled the butt against her shoulder, clutched the ergonomic grip, and steadied the short weapon using the nylon loop under the blunt muzzle. She aimed and ripped off tight bursts at the approaching targets. Spent shell casings billowed into the air and rained down around her feet. Two guards dropped; the others scattered for cover.
The smooth, modular hallway provided very little cover. She cut down two men who were pressed to the wall. They tumbled back together, leaving smears of blood. Another man ducked behind some vent pipes. The P90 had good penetration, so she shot the pipes out, blasting him with jets of escaping steam.
The sixth man made it to the doorway. She tried for him, but her rounds smacked along the frame. From partial cover, he returned fire. She danced sideways as shots stitched a line down the floor. Her back to the wall, she fired again, forcing him to duck.
Widow turned and started to run. The P90 had a clear plastic magazine so the operator could check the load by eye. She’d used at least a third of the weapon’s fifty-round capacity.
Gunfire followed her.
She swerved into a link well and slid down the metal wall ladder, the gun resting over her shoulder. She landed firmly on the deck below and retrained the bullpup, flicking both ways—ready for surprises.
Alarms were ringing, muted but urgent electronic pulses. Two techs in yellow came around a corner, saw her, and fled. She started to run again, the weapon clutched to her chest. Rips of gunfire spat down the link well behind her, pinging off the deck.
Another junction, another link well. This time she climbed up, returning to the original level. Counterintuitive tactics: They’d seen her exit downwards. They’d expect her to keep moving down through the building.
She came up into a small service chamber. She slipped into the shadows of a maintenance alcove, dropped the P90, and slammed fresh clips into both Glocks. She was low on ammo. On arrival in the Savage Land, she’d been packing six clips of ten rounds: four in belt pouches, and one in each weapon. The raptors had accounted for two clips, and she’d just emptied two more. These reloads were her last. The A.I.M. handguns used rounds compatible with the Glock 26s, but the clips were not interchangeable. To score munitions from A.I.M., she’d need to hand-load her empty clips, which would take time.
Widow removed the suppressor from one of her Glocks. She might still need stealth, but the tubes robbed the guns of punch, and she might also need stopping power. She had to keep her options open.
It was time to plan. She could cat-and-mouse around the facility all day long, but that wouldn’t achieve much. She had the intel on A.I.M.’s operation, but no means of getting it out. Comms were down, and the world beyond Antarctica seemed to have taken the phone off the hook. She could try to find transport, exfil, and get word to the outside world. But that was a tall order, and there seemed no guarantee that help would come.
She could stay on site and shut down A.I.M. Also a tall order, but more viable, and potentially a much faster result—if things went her way. If she was smart. If she could make best use of the elements at her disposal.
She needed to find Hawkeye. She hoped he was still at large.
She reholstered the Glocks and picked up the P90. Apart from the alarms, the area was quiet. She peered out of the service chamber along the main corridor, and heard voices. A detail ran past. She waited until they were gone.
She risked a look at the corridor’s surveillance system: discrete cameras mounted at intervals, covering the angles, leaving few if any blind spots. All of them displayed red L.E.D. indicators, showing they were operational. She’d quietly canned the security monitors along her infil route, but this section was live. A.I.M. would be able to see her.
It was time to let them. She stepped into the corridor and began to walk, purposeful and bold, the weapon resting on her hip.
She reckoned on six steps. It took four. They were sharp.
“Stay where you are,” a voice ordered over the speaker system. She stopped, looked for the nearest camera, and smiled up at it.
“I don’t think so,” she told it.
“Stay where you are and put down your weapons.”
“You can hear me, yes?” she called, staring at the camera.
“Stay where you are and put down your weapons.”
“I don’t know if you can hear me,” she said. “Put me on speaker so I know you can hear me.”
There was a pause. She could hear movement from both ends of the corridor: security squads moving up, but keeping out of sight. That was okay. The service chamber and link well were just behind her if she needed cover in a hurry. She heard a click on the speaker.
“Can you hear me?” she asked again. They could. She could hear her own words echoing through the building via the internal comm system.
“Lay down your weapons,” the speaker said. “Surrender.”
“Still with this?” she said, mai
ntaining her confident look to the camera. “A.I.M. is a criminal organization, outlawed by S.H.I.E.L.D. and the United Nations Security Council. It is you who must surrender.”
There was another pause.
“Are you making a joke?” the voice said, its composure slipping. “You are alone. You are outgunned. You expect us to surrender?”
She took a small tube from her belt and held it up in her fist, so the camera could see it. Her thumb was pressed to the end of it.
“I don’t,” she said, “but the shaped charges I have placed around your perimeter, your power generator, your landing structure, and your nanotechnology-fabrication plant say otherwise.”
* * *
THE A.I.M. guard went limp, his blood supply cut off. Hawkeye gently released his chokehold and lowered the man to the floor. The security station was a small cubicle, pretty cozy with just him and the unconscious dude. A control console supported banks of displays and a single chair. On one wall, a fire extinguisher in a rack. On the other, a ladder to the roof hatch. He pulled the door shut and started to check out the console.
Alarms had been sounding for five minutes. Natasha was being Natasha somewhere. He’d just heard her voice over the intercom, a few moments ago. What the hell was she doing?
“Do you need me to repeat that?” he heard her say over the speakers.
Hawkeye punched through the surveillance angles, section by section. He found her. Yeah, nice back view. She was standing in a corridor, looking up and holding something up in her hand.
A camera. She was looking up at a camera.
What was she holding?
He switched camera views. It took three changes to find the one she was looking at. There she was. A smile on her face, too. He knew that look. Total “I’m in control” confidence.
That made him nervous. The whole mission had been hit-the-ground-running, seat-of-the-pants so far. Here she was acting like she was part of a precision plan.
Acting. Operative word. Natasha Romanoff had a habit of improvising in a crisis and expecting everybody to go along with her. She’d gotten A.I.M. to put her on speaker. That meant she was hoping that Hawkeye could hear her, wherever he was. Okay, what did she want him to hear?