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"Move!"
Rumlow roared.
The cramped elevator car turned into an arena in an instant.
Steve Rogers—the man who'd used Nazis as punching bags back in World War II—gave the HYDRA Agents no chance.
"Bang!"
He kicked the Agent on his left in the knee; the crack of bone rang out loud and clear.
As the man fell, Steve grabbed his tactical vest and used him as a human battering-ram against the Agent on the right who was reaching for his gun.
The two tumbled together in a heap.
Rumlow yanked out a dagger, but before he could raise it the rim of the red-white-blue Vibranium shield sliced into his wrist.
"Crack."
Rumlow screamed; the dagger flew from his hand.
Steve didn't stop. In the tight space he used elbows, knees, shield-strikes, hooks.
Every blow landed with a dull thud of flesh.
Fifteen-point-three seconds later,
no HYDRA Agent in the elevator was still standing.
"Huff…"
Steve stamped one foot on the rim of the shield; it flipped up, he caught it and slapped it back onto his arm.
Rumlow, clutching his broken wrist in the corner, snarled, "This isn't over, Captain. You won't walk out of S.H.I.E.L.D.!"
"I wouldn't bet on it."
Steve spun around and smashed the elevator's control panel with his shield.
Sparks flew.
The high-speed car lurched, its emergency brakes slamming the groaning compartment to a halt and sending the fallen men sprawling again.
"Screeech—"
The elevator froze in mid-shaft, somewhere around the fifteenth floor.
Steve looked up through the glass wall at Washington's bright sky and the Potomac River beyond.
"Sorry—send the repair bill to Vought."
He stepped back two paces, raised the shield, and sprinted.
"Crash—!!!"
The reinforced glass shattered under the Vibranium shield's impact.
Steve Rogers, like an eagle taking wing, leapt from dozens of meters in the air.
The wind howled.
He curled his body behind the shield as he adjusted his fall.
"Boom!"
He slammed into the S.H.I.E.L.D. plaza at ground level.
The marble cracked in a spider-web pattern, but with a smooth forward roll he stood up without a scratch.
Without pausing he sprinted for the Harley parked at the plaza's edge.
The engine thundered.
Steve hunkered down, twisted the throttle to the stop, and the bike shot like an arrow toward the Roosevelt Bridge.
"Damn it—he's getting away!!"
In the S.H.I.E.L.D. command center Sitwell watched the monitors, tense.
"Seal the bridge! Don't let him leave the District! Launch the quinjet!"
…Theodore Roosevelt Bridge.
Steve lay over the bike, throttle maxed out.
Pierce's hypocritical smile still echoed in his mind, along with the Agents who'd suddenly drawn blades in the elevator.
Most of them he knew—comrades who'd fought the Chitauri invasion at his side.
Betrayal.
A chill more bitter than winter water.
Suddenly—
"Whoom—!!!"
A thunderous turbine roar descended from above.
A shadow blanketed the bridge.
A S.H.I.E.L.D. quinjet hovered dead ahead, blocking the way.
The chin-mounted Gatling rotated, its black muzzles locking onto the speeding motorcycle.
"Steve Rogers—stop immediately or we will use lethal force!"
The pilot's icy warning blared from the loudspeaker.
Steve didn't slow; he tightened his grip on the bars.
"Bring it on."
He raised the shield single-handed, ready to ride through the coming hail of bullets.
Just as the cannon was about to spit fire—
"Thoom—!"
An invisible air-blast erupted from the river below, smashing straight into the quinjet's left wing!
The jolt pitched the hovering craft sideways; the cannon's burst ripped into the river, sending up geysers three meters high.
"What the hell?!" the pilot yelled.
"Taking unknown fire—taking—"
Before he could level the craft—
"Screeeeech—!!"
A piercing high-frequency sonic lance followed, shattering the quinjet's cockpit glass like an invisible drill.
Blood ran from the pilot's ears as he screamed, fighting to pull the jet up and away.
"Not done yet, big bird!" a rough voice shouted.
"Swish!"
A grappling hook on an alloy cable shot up from under the bridge and snagged the tilting wing.
The cable snapped taut—
—and with the whine of a winch a powerful figure flew up the line, vaulted onto the quinjet's fuselage, and landed on its back!
Iron Arm Joe.
His massive arms rose high.
"Go… DOWN!!"
Boom!!
His iron fist smashed into the turbine engine.
Fire blossomed; turbine blades shattered.
Powerless, the quinjet belched black smoke and spiraled toward the Potomac.
"Boom!!"
A colossal splash rose.
Iron Arm Joe leapt clear a heartbeat before impact and landed steady on the bridge deck.
At the same moment two more figures vaulted over the railing.
One was a woman holding a sonic amplifier—Scream.
The other, a man wearing goggles with swirling air around his hands—Wind Breaker.
The Windy City Guardians trio Steve had once saved from the Winter Soldier.
Steve stamped the brake; the bike skidded to a stop, leaving black streaks.
He stared at the three youngsters, still panting and covered with half-healed scars.
"You guys…"
"Instructor." Iron Arm Joe grinned, snapped a less-than-perfect salute.
"Heard you were in a spot of trouble?"
"How are you here?" Steve asked.
"Supervisor Ashley said you were 'visiting friends' in D.C.; we were doing rehab nearby," Scream tossed her hair.
"Figured… you might need an extraction."
"We may be second-string washouts," Wind Breaker adjusted his glasses, "but we know how to return a favor."
"Last time you saved our lives." Iron Arm Joe thumped his own chest.
"Call this the interest."
Steve looked at them.
These rookies who'd once fought over top bunks in boot camp had learned teamwork, learned to step up when it counted.
And, most important, they'd chosen his side.
After S.H.I.E.L.D.'s betrayal, the comradely warmth these three Vought heroes offered was a balm to his soul.
"Thanks."
Steve snapped a crisp salute.
"Salute to you, Instructor," the three answered in unison.
Then they vaulted the railing, dropped into the river, and roared away in a speedboat.
Steve restarted the engine, glanced once at the Triskelion Building symbolizing power,
then thundered north toward New York State…
Next dawn,
a carefully orchestrated media detonation rocked the entire United States.
Every TV station, news site, and social platform carried the same headline.
On screen: a black-and-white vintage photo.
Young Steve Rogers in his World War II uniform—only the background had been Photoshopped with the HYDRA logo.
And beside it, in shocking red letters:
"Captain America—or Captain HYDRA?"
"Captain America—or Captain HYDRA?"