October 17, 1944, France
The bar was too small for the number of soldiers packed inside it.
Someone had dragged two extra tables against the wall, chairs had been stolen from somewhere upstairs, and men stood shoulder to shoulder near the counter with drinks raised over their heads whenever they needed to squeeze through.
Cigarette smoke hung beneath the ceiling.
Somebody had found a record player.
Nobody seemed to know where.
Nobody cared.
Steve sat near the end of a crowded table with Bucky on one side and Sullivan across from him.
A glass appeared in front of Steve.
He looked at it.
Then at Sullivan.
"What's this?"
Sullivan stared at him.
"A drink."
"I can see that."
"Then why'd you ask?"
Bucky leaned forward and smelled it.
His face twisted.
"Jesus."
Sullivan pulled the glass away from him.
"Wasn't offering it to you."
"You shouldn't be offering it to anybody."
Steve picked up the glass and studied the brown liquid inside.
"What is it?"
Sullivan shrugged.
"Guy behind the bar called it whiskey."
"Called it?"
"That's usually a bad sign," Bucky said.
Sullivan pointed at Steve.
"Drink."
Steve took a small sip.
He immediately coughed.
Bucky burst out laughing.
Sullivan stared at Steve in disbelief.
"This is Captain America?"
Steve wiped his mouth.
"That tastes like gasoline."
"Gasoline would probably go down smoother."
Bucky raised his own glass.
"To think the Germans are scared of this guy."
Steve kicked him beneath the table.
Bucky nearly spilled his drink.
"Hey!"
"You were saying?"
Bucky glared at him.
Sullivan laughed and raised his glass.
"To Captain America."
Steve looked around the table.
Several others heard him.
Glasses started rising.
"To Cap!"
"Captain!"
"Rogers!"
Steve's smile faded as the voices grew louder.
He still wasn't used to it.
Only a few months ago, men had looked at him and wondered why the Army had sent some government experiment to fight beside them.
Now Sullivan was raising a glass to him.
Steve lifted his own glass.
"To all of us."
Sullivan shook his head.
"Terrible toast."
"It's my first one."
"Clearly."
Their glasses met.
Steve drank again.
It tasted just as bad the second time.
Bucky watched him struggle.
"You know, when we were kids, this guy couldn't even finish a glass of milk without getting sick."
Steve turned toward him.
"That happened once."
"Twice."
"I was six."
"Still happened."
Sullivan leaned forward.
"You got any other stories?"
Steve pointed at Bucky.
"No."
Bucky grinned.
"Oh, I've got plenty."
"Buck."
"There was this one time—"
"Bucky."
"—Steve decided he was going to fight three guys behind a butcher shop."
Sullivan stared at Steve.
"Three?"
Steve sighed.
"They were picking on somebody."
"Were they?"
"Yes."
Bucky nodded solemnly.
"They were."
Sullivan waited.
"And?"
Bucky took a drink.
"They beat the shit out of him."
The table erupted.
Steve shook his head.
"I hate all of you."
"That's not what you said when we started calling you Captain," Sullivan said.
Steve looked at him.
Sullivan was smiling.
Captain.
The first time Sullivan had said it, Steve had stopped walking.
Tonight it sounded almost ordinary.
"Cap, pass that bottle."
Steve slid it down the table without looking.
"And you're paying, Captain!" someone called.
"Since when?"
"Since you're the famous one."
At the other end of the table, Henderson was already dealing another hand.
Bucky pointed at him. "Watch him. Bastard cheats."
"I don't cheat."
"You absolutely cheat."
Henderson tossed him a card. "Then prove it."
Steve laughed.
For a little while, the war felt far away.
Steve sat among them and listened.
Tonight, that was enough.
The bar carried on around him. Someone butchered a song near the counter until half the room yelled at him to shut up, while an argument over baseball grew louder at the next table. Henderson, apparently determined to lose what little money he had left, was already shuffling the cards again. But the empty chair beside him kept catching Steve's eye.
Sullivan kept insisting the alcohol got better after the third glass.
Steve suspected that was a lie.
Then somebody said a name.
"Miller."
Their end of the table quieted.
Sullivan looked down at his drink. Bucky stopped smiling. Steve's eyes settled on the empty chair beside Henderson.
It had been Miller's chair.
Sullivan lifted his glass.
"To Miller."
Steve raised his.
The others followed.
"To Miller."
They drank.
For a few seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Henderson shuffled the cards.
Bucky immediately pointed at him.
"Watch his hands."
Henderson looked offended.
"We just drank to a dead man, and this asshole's accusing me of cheating."
"Miller thought you cheated too."
"He was wrong."
Sullivan laughed.
Slowly, the table came alive again, but Miller's chair stayed empty.
Steve leaned back and watched them.
Bucky arguing.
Henderson cheating—or maybe not.
Sullivan complaining about the drink he'd forced everyone else to consume.
Men who had followed Steve into gunfire now fighting over cards and warm liquor.
For most of his life, Steve had wanted to belong somewhere like this. He hadn't imagined it would take a war to find it, or that it would leave an empty chair behind.
Steve found Peggy exactly where he expected.
Working.
He found her inside what used to be a small hotel, with most of the lights out and one still burning behind the front windows.
Steve pushed through the door.
Peggy sat alone at a table covered in maps and reports.
She didn't look up.
"You're supposed to knock."
Steve stopped.
"You knew it was me."
"Your footsteps are difficult to miss."
Steve looked down at his boots.
"I wasn't aware I had loud footsteps."
"You do when you're trying to be quiet."
That got a smile out of him.
Peggy finally looked up.
Her eyes moved over him.
"Have you been drinking?"
Steve leaned against the doorway.
"Apparently."
"Apparently?"
"Sullivan gave me something he claimed was whiskey."
"And?"
"I think he's trying to kill me."
Peggy smiled.
"I imagine the Germans will be relieved to hear they've finally discovered your weakness."
"Don't tell anybody."
"I'll have to put it in the report."
Steve walked farther into the room.
Peggy returned to the papers in front of her, but he noticed her smile hadn't completely disappeared. The room settled back into quiet.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
The music from the bar still carried faintly down the street.
Steve looked at the maps.
"You've been here all night?"
"Some of us have work to do."
"I've been working."
"You've been drinking."
"Against my will."
"Of course."
Steve pulled out the chair across from her and sat down.
Peggy glanced up.
"Shouldn't you be celebrating?"
"I was."
"Was?"
Steve shrugged.
"It got loud."
"You've fought through artillery."
"Artillery doesn't tell embarrassing stories about you."
Peggy's eyebrow lifted.
"Bucky?"
"Bucky."
"What did he tell them?"
"Nothing worth repeating."
"Then I'll ask him tomorrow."
Steve frowned.
"You wouldn't."
"I absolutely would."
Steve stared at her.
Peggy held his gaze for another second before returning to her work. Steve smiled.
There were things he wanted to say.
He always seemed to have things to say around Peggy.
Instead, his eyes fell on a small radio sitting near the edge of the table.
Music played quietly through the static.
Steve listened for a moment.
Then he looked at Peggy.
"Do you remember Brooklyn?"
Peggy stopped writing.
"I remember quite a lot about Brooklyn."
"The car."
Now she looked at him.
Steve rubbed his hands together.
"You asked me if I'd ever danced."
Peggy's expression softened.
"I remember."
"I told you I hadn't."
"You told me you were waiting for the right partner."
Steve looked down.
"Yeah."
Peggy leaned back slightly.
"And?"
Steve looked toward the radio.
Then back at her.
"I was thinking maybe I shouldn't wait until the war's over to learn."
Peggy stared at him.
Steve immediately regretted every word. The moment hung awkwardly in the dim room until Peggy answered him.
"I mean, we don't have to. You're working. And this probably isn't really the place, so—"
"Steve."
He stopped.
Peggy stood.
Steve watched her walk around the table.
Suddenly fighting Germans seemed much easier.
She held out her hand.
Steve looked at it.
"You're serious?"
"You were the one who asked."
"I didn't exactly ask."
"No. You spent thirty seconds trying not to."
Steve took her hand.
Peggy led him toward the small open space between the tables and the wall.
Steve looked down at their feet.
"Just so we're clear, I have no idea what I'm doing."
"I know."
"That doesn't concern you?"
"Not particularly."
"It concerns me."
Peggy placed his hand at her waist.
Steve froze.
She looked at him.
"Steve."
"Right."
Her other hand settled into his.
"Stop thinking."
"That's usually when things go wrong."
"Trust me."
Steve did. The room seemed to narrow around them as the music kept playing.
They moved slowly.
Or Peggy moved slowly.
Steve mostly tried not to step on her.
Once, he nearly did.
Peggy caught herself against him.
"Sorry."
"You're doing wonderfully."
"You're lying."
"Yes."
Steve laughed. Then something changed, as if the rest of the room had fallen away.
He stopped watching his feet.
Peggy was looking at him.
The war seemed farther away than it had in the bar.
No shouting.
No cards.
No terrible whiskey.
Just music struggling through an old radio and Peggy Carter in his arms.
"You know," Peggy said, "you're taller than I remember."
Steve smiled.
"I've heard that."
"I preferred you before."
His smile disappeared.
Peggy let him suffer for exactly one second.
"Much easier to intimidate."
Steve laughed.
"There she is."
They kept moving.
Steve didn't know how long.
Not long enough.
A knock came from the doorway, and they separated almost immediately.
An officer stood there holding a folder.
His eyes moved from Peggy to Steve.
"Captain Rogers."
Steve's hand slowly fell from Peggy's.
"Yes?"
"Command wants you."
The warmth disappeared from Steve's face as he took in the folder.
"When?"
The officer held out the folder.
"Now."
Steve took it.
Peggy watched him open it.
There wasn't much inside.
A location.
A reconnaissance report.
Several photographs.
A number written across the top.
Steve's expression changed.
Peggy noticed it.
"What is it?"
Steve handed her the first photograph.
What remained of an American patrol lay scattered along a road.
Peggy's face hardened.
Steve turned to the next.
Another body.
Then another.
He stopped.
Something in the wounds was wrong.
"Gunfire?" Peggy asked.
Steve shook his head.
"No."
"How can you tell?"
Steve stared at the photograph.
Because he'd seen what bullets did.
He'd seen what artillery did.
He'd seen what men did to one another.
This wasn't any of them.
The officer remained by the door.
"Patrol went missing yesterday morning. They found them this afternoon."
Steve looked up.
"How many?"
"Twenty-three."
"Survivors?"
The officer hesitated.
"None."
Steve closed the folder.
"What exactly are my orders?"
The officer looked at Steve.
"Take your unit. Find out what happened before it happens again."
Steve looked at Peggy.
The dance was over.
October 18, 1944
Morning came cold and gray.
The truck bounced along the ruined road, carrying Steve and his men deeper into the countryside.
No one had said much since they left.
Sullivan sat across from Steve with his helmet pulled low over his eyes, looking considerably less cheerful than he had a few hours earlier.
Bucky noticed it.
"You look terrible."
Sullivan opened one eye.
"I feel terrible."
"I told you that whiskey was bad."
"You drank it."
"You made us drink it."
Sullivan pointed toward Steve.
"He drank it."
Steve looked up from the folder in his hands.
"Against my will."
Bucky smiled.
"See?"
Sullivan muttered something under his breath and leaned his head against the side of the truck.
Henderson checked his rifle.
"You're all weak."
"You were asleep before we left town," Sullivan said.
"I was resting my eyes."
"You were snoring."
Henderson looked at Bucky.
"Was I snoring?"
Bucky nodded.
"Like artillery."
A few of the men laughed.
Steve didn't.
Bucky noticed the silence.
His smile faded.
"What is it?"
The truck grew quieter.
Steve looked at the men around him.
The same faces from the bar.
Sullivan.
Henderson.
Bucky.
Men he'd fought beside.
Men who had finally started calling him Captain.
Steve closed the folder.
"We're not heading toward a German position."
Sullivan straightened slightly.
"What are we heading toward?"
Steve held up the folder.
"Yesterday morning, an Allied patrol was sent into this area."
"How many?" Henderson asked.
"Twenty-three."
Nobody spoke.
Steve continued.
"They didn't come back."
Bucky's expression hardened.
"They were found yesterday afternoon."
"Captured?" someone asked.
Steve shook his head.
"Dead."
The humor disappeared from the truck.
"All of them?" Sullivan asked.
"All twenty-three."
Henderson stopped checking his rifle.
"Germans?"
"We don't know."
That caught their attention.
Sullivan frowned.
"What do you mean, we don't know?"
Steve opened the folder and removed a photograph.
He passed it across.
Sullivan looked at it.
His expression changed at once.
Henderson leaned over.
"Jesus."
"The bodies don't match what we'd expect from gunfire or artillery," Steve said. "Command doesn't know what happened. They don't know how many Germans were there, what weapons they had, or if they're still in the area."
Bucky looked at him.
"And we're supposed to find out."
Steve nodded.
"Before another unit gets sent through there."
The photograph moved from man to man.
The truck fell quiet.
Steve watched them.
Then he reached forward and took the photograph back.
"There's something else."
Everyone looked at him.
"I accepted this assignment."
He paused.
"You didn't."
Sullivan frowned.
"Cap—"
"Let me finish."
Sullivan went quiet.
Steve looked around the truck.
"Command doesn't know what we're walking into. Neither do I."
He placed the photograph back inside the folder.
"So I'm not ordering any of you to come with me."
Bucky almost laughed.
"Steve."
"I mean it, Buck."
"I know you do."
Steve looked at him.
"That doesn't change anything."
Bucky leaned forward, resting his arms against his knees.
"You're going?"
"Yes."
"Then I'm going."
Steve's jaw tightened.
"Buck—"
"No."
For once, Bucky wasn't smiling.
"You don't get to spend your whole life following me into fights you had no business being in and then tell me I can't follow you into one."
Steve stared at him.
Bucky leaned back.
"I'm going."
Sullivan raised his hand.
"Unfortunately, so am I."
Steve looked over.
Sullivan shrugged.
"Somebody has to make sure Captain America doesn't get himself killed."
Henderson snorted.
"You?"
"Shut up."
Henderson checked the magazine in his rifle and pushed it back into place.
"I'm in."
Another soldier nodded.
"Me too."
Then another.
Nobody made a speech.
Nobody needed to.
One after another, every man in the truck agreed.
Steve looked around at them.
"You understand what I'm telling you?"
Sullivan nodded.
"We don't know what's waiting for us."
"No."
"And you're going anyway."
"Yes."
Sullivan shrugged.
"Then I guess we're all stupid."
Bucky looked at Steve.
"Some of us longer than others."
Steve shook his head.
A few men laughed.
It wasn't the laughter from the bar.
But it was enough.
Steve looked down at the folder in his hands.
"Alright."
He opened it and pulled out the map.
"We're about twenty minutes out."
The men leaned closer.
Steve pointed to a road cutting through a small village.
"The patrol was found here. Command believes they came through from the east. We check the area, find out what happened, and if whatever did this is still there—"
Sullivan finished for him.
"We stop it."
Steve looked at him.
"Yeah."
The truck suddenly dropped into a crater, throwing everyone against their seats. Sullivan caught himself against the side.
"Christ."
Henderson grinned. "Maybe the road'll kill you before the whiskey does."
"Keep talking."
The truck continued forward.
Outside, fields gave way to shattered fences and abandoned homes. Farther ahead, the remains of a village began to appear between the trees.
Steve folded the map.
"Check your weapons."
Around Steve, the truck filled with the metallic clicks of rifles being readied. Magazines came free for a quick check, then were shoved back into place. Bucky pulled his bolt and glanced toward the approaching village.
Nobody was joking anymore.
Bucky moved beside Steve as the truck began slowing.
"You really thought we'd let you go alone?"
Steve looked at him.
"I hoped somebody around here had some sense."
Bucky smiled.
"You picked the wrong unit."
The truck stopped.
Steve stood.
He reached for his shield.
"Let's go."
The village stretched farther than it had looked from the road.
Steve led the men through rows of damaged houses, his shield on his forearm. Doors hung open. Windows were shattered. Abandoned carts and furniture sat where families had left them.
They had searched for nearly twenty minutes.
Nothing.
No Germans.
No civilians.
Sullivan emerged from a house across the road.
"Clear."
Henderson stepped out behind him.
"Same."
Steve looked farther down the street.
"Keep moving."
Bucky fell in beside him.
"You know, I was starting to think command sent us to the wrong village."
"We're not looking for a village."
"I know."
"We're checking the area."
"I know."
Steve looked at him.
"Then why are you complaining?"
"Because we've been walking for twenty minutes and nobody's shot at us yet."
Steve shook his head.
"You complain when they shoot at us."
"That's different."
"How?"
"I have something to complain about."
Steve almost smiled.
A door slammed ahead.
He stopped.
So did Bucky.
Steve raised his fist.
The unit froze behind them.
Sullivan brought his rifle up.
Henderson moved toward the side of the road.
Steve listened.
Nothing.
Then voices.
German.
Bucky looked at Steve.
Steve pointed to the buildings ahead.
The men moved.
No hesitation.
Henderson crossed the road and disappeared through an open doorway with two others. Sullivan took another pair toward the opposite side.
Steve and Bucky continued down the center.
The German voices grew louder.
Steve reached the corner of a partially collapsed house and pressed to the stone.
Bucky took position beside him.
Footsteps approached from the other side.
Steve held up three fingers.
Two.
One.
He moved around the corner.
Four Germans stopped in the road.
For a moment, no one moved.
They weren't dressed like the soldiers Steve had been fighting for months.
Their uniforms were German, but they carried less equipment than Steve expected. One didn't even have a rifle.
None of them looked surprised to find armed Americans standing twenty feet away. Then one noticed the shield. His eyes settled on the white star. Something shifted in their faces. He said something quietly in German. The man beside him looked at Steve. Then smiled.
"Captain America."
Steve tightened his grip on the shield.
Bucky glanced at him.
"You know these guys?"
"No."
The German continued staring.
"So."
His English was heavily accented.
"You are Erskine's American."
Steve's expression changed.
Before he could answer, Bucky fired.
The shot struck the man square in the chest.
He stumbled backward.
Bucky immediately aimed at the next.
Then stopped.
The first German straightened.
Blood darkened his uniform where the bullet had entered.
He looked down at it.
Touched the wound.
Then looked back at Bucky.
Bucky stared.
"What the hell?"
The German smiled.
Steve's stomach dropped.
The man crossed the distance between them in a blink.
Bucky barely got the rifle up.
A fist drove into his ribs.
Bucky left the ground.
"BUCK!"
He flew across the street and crashed through the wall of a house.
Steve ran.
He made it two steps.
Before one of the Germans slammed into him.
Steve's shield caught the first blow, but the impact stopped him.
For the first time, Steve saw surprise in someone else's face. The man had expected Steve to go flying.
Steve hadn't.
Another German approached from his right.
The first smiled.
Now he understood. They were like him—strong enough to match him, strong enough to kill them.
"Keep shooting!"
Sullivan's rifle erupted from across the street.
The other two Germans turned.
Bullets struck one across the shoulder and back.
He staggered.
Then turned toward Sullivan.
Sullivan stopped firing.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
"MOVE!" Henderson shouted.
The German charged.
Sullivan and the others scattered through the buildings as both enhanced soldiers gave chase, faster than any man should have been.
Steve looked toward the collapsed house.
"BUCKY!"
Nothing.
No answer.
Steve started toward it again.
A hand clamped the edge of his shield.
Steve turned.
The German yanked him forward and drove a fist into his stomach.
Air exploded from Steve's lungs.
The second caught him across the jaw.
Steve stumbled into the road.
He tasted blood.
The two Germans spread apart.
One to his left.
One to his right.
Behind them, gunfire erupted between the houses.
Steve raised his shield.
"All right."
Steve planted his feet.
The first German charged.
Steve caught the punch against his shield.
The impact rang through the street and drove him back a step.
The second came from his right.
Steve ducked under the punch.
A fist passed over his head.
Steve didn't waste it.
He drove his shield into the second man's ribs, turned, and slammed his elbow across the first man's jaw.
The German stumbled.
Steve planted his feet, threw the man over his shoulder, and sent him crashing into the road.
Steve raised the shield just in time.
BANG.
The punch struck the shield.
Steve slid backward through the dirt.
These men were strong.
But they were reckless.
Steve had spent months learning how to fight with the body Erskine had given him. They fought as though strength was all they needed.
Steve intended to make them regret it.
He charged.
Sullivan ran down the street between two buildings.
"MOVE!"
The men followed.
Behind them, something crashed through a wooden fence on the street.
Sullivan looked back.
The German hadn't bothered going around it.
Bullets struck his chest.
He kept coming.
"Jesus Christ!"
Another burst.
Nothing.
The German caught the last man in the group and hurled him against the side of a house down the street.
Sullivan emptied the magazine.
The German raised an arm over his face and kept coming.
Sullivan's rifle clicked empty.
He stared at the empty rifle.
Then at the German.
His hand dropped toward his belt.
Two grenades.
Sullivan looked back toward the street.
Through the broken windows of a nearby house, he caught glimpses of Steve fighting in the street across from him.
"Crazy bastard."
Sullivan pulled both grenades free.
The German saw them.
He stopped.
Sullivan's grin widened. "I'll see you in hell." Sullivan lunged.
"I'll see you in hell."
Sullivan lunged.
He wrapped himself around the German before the man could escape.
Across the village, Steve heard him.
"CAPTAIN!"
Steve turned.
For a fraction of a second, he saw Sullivan.
"SULLIVAN!"
Sullivan looked straight at him.
Then—
BOOM.
The blast erupted between the buildings.
Fire tore through the space between the buildings.
Steve froze.
Smoke and debris rolled into the street.
A fist smashed across his face.
Steve hit the ground.
"Sullivan..."
Another punch came.
He blocked it.
He had two monsters in front of him.
Henderson cut through an alley and nearly slipped as he rounded the corner.
The remaining German was right behind him.
CRASH.
He looked back.
The German had gone through the corner of a wooden shed rather than slow down, smashing it behind Henderson.
"Oh, come on!"
Henderson ran harder.
He entered the remains of a house and stopped in the front room.
A body lay near the window.
American.
Beside him rested a scoped rifle.
Henderson looked at the rifle and toward the doorway.
Heavy footsteps approached from the doorway.
He dropped his rifle and grabbed the other.
Checked it.
The footsteps stopped.
His breathing slowed.
The German stepped inside.
Then he smiled. Henderson had left himself open. The German charged.
Henderson left himself open.
The German charged.
Henderson raised the scope.
"Come on, you son of a bitch."
Closer.
Henderson held his ground.
The German reached for him.
"Too slow."
Henderson shoved the barrel toward his face.
The German's eyes widened.
BANG.
His head snapped backward.
The body hit the floor.
Henderson stayed against the wall, rifle still raised.
He stared at the German.
Then lowered the weapon.
A laugh escaped him. "Holy shit." He stepped closer. The German didn't move.
"Holy shit."
He stepped closer.
The German didn't move.
Henderson grinned.
"I got you."
He looked back toward the street.
"HEY!"
No answer.
Henderson laughed again.
"Did anybody see that?"
A floorboard creaked behind him.
Steve drove his forehead into the German's face.
Blood sprayed from the man's nose.
Steve grabbed his uniform, and both crashed through a doorway.
The first came back swinging.
Steve slipped the punch.
Shield to the ribs.
The German folded.
Steve swung the shield across the man's jaw.
The man dropped.
Steve turned as the second tackled him.
They fell through the floor into the room below.
The German raised his fist.
Steve caught his wrist.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Steve began pushing it backward.
The German's expression changed.
Steve drove his knee into his stomach.
The grip broke.
Steve shoved him aside and climbed to his feet.
The German came up swinging.
Steve slipped the punch.
A fist buried itself in the German's stomach.
Steve followed with another across the jaw.
The German stumbled.
Steve stayed on him.
Left.
Right.
The German tried to answer.
Steve knocked the punch aside and drove the edge of his shield into his ribs.
The man doubled over.
Steve brought a knee into his face.
His head snapped back.
Steve hit him again.
And again.
The German staggered backward until his back nearly reached the wall.
Steve took one step forward.
Then drove his boot into the man's chest.
CRASH.
The German flew backward through the wall.
Stone and plaster exploded into the room beyond.
Steve stood there, gasping.
Waiting.
Neither got back up. For the first time since the fighting began, Steve heard nothing. No gunfire. No shouting. No explosions.
Just the crackle of Sullivan's fire somewhere between the buildings.
Steve stepped into the street.
His face was bloodied. His uniform was torn across one shoulder.
"Bucky!"
Nothing.
Steve looked toward the collapsed house down the street.
"BUCK!"
No answer.
Steve turned and called again, "Sullivan!"
"Sullivan!"
Steve's eyes found the smoke between the buildings.
He already knew.
His jaw tightened.
"Henderson!"
Silence.
Steve started walking.
Something moved at the far end of the street.
Steve stopped.
A man emerged from between the two buildings.
Steve had never seen him before.
German uniform.
No rifle.
No helmet.
Unlike the others, he wasn't breathing hard.
There wasn't a scratch on him.
And in one hand—
Steve went still as he saw Henderson dragged forward.
Henderson's boots scraped across the dirt.
His arms hung loose.
The sniper rifle was gone.
The German stopped in the middle of the road and looked down at Henderson.
He looked down at Henderson.
Then casually released him.
Henderson hit the ground.
Steve stared at his body.
The German followed his gaze.
"I must admit..."
His English was nearly perfect.
He glanced toward the building behind him.
Toward the super-soldier Henderson had killed.
"Your friend surprised me."
Steve slowly raised his shield.
The German smiled.
"He was very proud of himself."
Steve said nothing.
The man stepped over Henderson's body.
His eyes moved across the village.
One dead enhanced soldier.
Then another.
Smoke rose from where Sullivan had taken his with him.
Finally, he looked toward the two bodies behind Steve.
Four.
All four were dead.
The man's attention returned to Captain America.
His smile widened.
"So."
He began walking toward Steve.
"At last."
Steve tightened the straps around his arm.
The German spread his hands.
"Captain America."