"Move!"
Brock Rumlow roared.
The cramped elevator instantly turned into a gladiator pit.
Steve Rogers, the man who once treated Nazis like punching bags during World War II, gave the HYDRA agents no room to breathe.
Bam!
He snapped a kick into the knee of the agent on his left.
The crack of breaking bone echoed cleanly.
Before the man even hit the floor, Steve seized his tactical vest and slammed him forward—using his body as a shield—straight into another agent who was drawing his pistol.
They crashed together in a tangled heap.
Rumlow whipped out a combat knife—
—but before his arm fully rose, the red-white-and-blue vibranium shield carved across his wrist.
Crack.
Rumlow screamed as the knife flew from his grasp.
Steve didn't pause.
In the narrow elevator, he became pure efficiency—
elbow strikes, knee blows, shield bashes, tight hooks.
Each hit landed with the dull, wet thud of flesh colliding with bone.
Fifteen point three seconds later.
No HYDRA agent remained standing.
"Huff…"
Steve stepped on the edge of the shield.
It sprang upward—he caught it cleanly as it magnetically locked back onto his arm.
Rumlow clutched his shattered wrist, slumped in the corner, eyes burning with hate.
"This isn't over, Captain. You're not leaving S.H.I.E.L.D. alive."
"I wouldn't be so sure."
Steve turned—and smashed the shield straight into the elevator control panel.
Sparks exploded.
The high-speed descending elevator lurched violently.
The sudden brake sent the unconscious bodies rolling again.
Screeeech—
The elevator jammed mid-air, roughly fifteen floors up.
Steve looked through the reinforced glass.
Clear Washington skies.
The Potomac River gleaming below.
"Sorry," he said calmly. "Send the repair bill to Vought."
He stepped back, raised the shield, and sprinted forward.
CRASH!!!
The reinforced glass shattered under vibranium impact.
Steve Rogers launched himself into open air like a diving eagle.
Wind howled.
He adjusted mid-fall, curling behind the shield.
BOOM!
He hit the Triskelion's ground-floor plaza.
Marble cracked outward in a spiderweb—but he rolled cleanly and came up unharmed.
No hesitation.
He sprinted for the Harley parked at the edge of the plaza.
The engine roared.
Steve leaned low, throttle twisted to the limit.
The motorcycle screamed toward Theodore Roosevelt Bridge.
"Damn it! He got out!"
Inside the S.H.I.E.L.D. command center, Jasper Sitwell stared at the feeds.
"Lock down the bridge! Don't let him leave the District! Deploy a Quinjet!"
-----
Theodore Roosevelt Bridge
Steve hugged the bike, throttle pinned.
Pierce's false smile replayed in his mind.
The agents in the elevator—men he knew.
Men who had fought beside him during the Chitauri invasion.
Betrayal.
It cut colder than winter ice.
Suddenly—
WHOOOOM!
A massive turbine roar crushed down from above.
A shadow swallowed the bridge.
A S.H.I.E.L.D. Quinjet hovered directly ahead, blocking the roadway.
The nose-mounted Gatling cannon rotated slowly, black barrels locking onto the speeding motorcycle.
"Steve Rogers! Stop immediately, or lethal force will be used!"
The pilot's voice blasted through external speakers.
Steve didn't slow.
He tightened his grip.
"Then do it."
He raised the shield one-handed, bracing for gunfire.
Just as the cannon was about to unleash—
BOOM!
An invisible blast of compressed air slammed up from beneath the bridge, striking the Quinjet's left wing!
The aircraft jolted violently sideways.
The Gatling burst fired—
—but every round tore harmlessly into the river, sending towering water plumes skyward.
"What the hell?!" the pilot yelled. "Unknown attack—!"
Before he could recover—
SCREEEEE—!!!
A piercing, ultra-high-frequency sonic wave ripped through the air.
The reinforced cockpit glass shattered instantly.
The pilot screamed as blood streamed from his ears, yanking the controls and climbing hard.
"Not done yet, big bird!" a rough voice shouted.
Whoosh!
A steel cable with an alloy grappling hook shot upward—snagging the tilted wing.
The line went taut.
With the whine of a winch, a powerful figure rode the cable upward—
leaping onto the Quinjet's fuselage mid-motion.
Iron Arm Joe.
He raised both massive fists.
"DOWN—YOU—GO!!"
BOOM!!
His punch obliterated the engine housing.
Fire erupted. Turbine blades shattered.
The Quinjet spiraled, trailing smoke, plunging toward the Potomac.
SPLASH!!!
A massive column of water exploded upward.
A heartbeat before impact, Iron Arm Joe leapt free—
landing solidly on the bridge.
At the same time, two more figures vaulted over the railing.
One was a woman holding a sonic amplifier—Sonic Siren.
The other wore goggles, hands wrapped in swirling airflow—Windeye.
The Wind City Guardians.
The same trio Steve had saved from the Winter Soldier.
Steve slammed the brakes.
The bike skidded to a halt, black rubber streaking the asphalt.
He stared at the three battered, wounded young heroes.
"You guys…"
"Instructor," Iron Arm Joe grinned, flashing white teeth as he snapped a sloppy salute.
"Heard you ran into some trouble."
"How did you know?" Steve asked.
"Ashley said you were in D.C. visiting 'friends,'" Soundwave Girl said, brushing rain from her hair.
"We were nearby doing rehab training. Figured you might need extraction."
"We may be 'second-tier heroes,'" Windeye adjusted his glasses,
"but we know what paying back a debt looks like."
"You saved our lives," Joe said, pounding his chest.
"This one's interest."
Steve looked at them.
The same hotheaded rookies who once fought over bunk beds—
now coordinated, decisive, standing their ground.
After S.H.I.E.L.D.'s betrayal, three Vought heroes had chosen him.
Warmth cut through the cold.
"Thank you."
Steve snapped a formal salute.
"To you, Instructor," all three replied in unison.
They vaulted the railing, splashed into the river, and vanished aboard a speedboat.
Steve restarted the engine.
He glanced back once—
at the towering Triskelion, symbol of authority and rot.
Then he sped north toward New York State.
-----
The Next Morning
A perfectly timed media nuclear strike detonated across America.
Television. Social media. News sites.
Every screen showed the same image.
A black-and-white photo.
A young Steve Rogers in WWII uniform—
with a HYDRA emblem crudely photoshopped behind him.
Beside it, blood-red headlines screamed:
"CAPTAIN AMERICA—OR CAPTAIN HYDRA?"
--------------
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