The streets of Washington D.C. were calm. Morning traffic moved in neat rows, pedestrians bustled with coffee cups and earpieces, and joggers passed by unaware of the invisible storm approaching. The city wore its illusion of safety well, but beneath the surface, old enemies were already moving.
Nick Fury's convoy rolled through the city streets with practiced caution. His vehicle—a black, heavily-armored SUV—was flanked by two unmarked support cars. Civilian drivers barely glanced at them as they passed, unaware of the layers of defense embedded into every inch of those vehicles.
Inside the SUV, Fury sat in the back seat, scanning intelligence reports on a holographic interface projected from his wrist. His brows furrowed as one line of code repeated itself again and again—faint echoes of a digital fingerprint embedded in dormant SHIELD systems. He had seen this code before. Years ago. And it had only one signature: Zola.
His driver glanced into the mirror. "Director, ETA to the Triskelion is nine minutes."
Fury didn't respond immediately. He tapped the projection, pulling up a blinking anomaly flagged by one of his analysts—encrypted transmissions from a SHIELD subchannel no one had touched in years. The data pulse was too clean, too calculated. It wasn't a remnant.
It was bait.
His eye narrowed.
"Get us off the main route. Now."
The driver tensed. "Sir?"
Fury looked up, voice firm. "Reroute through East Tunnel. And activate counter-surveillance. Now."
The driver didn't ask questions. He flicked a switch. Their route altered on the nav. A secondary interface activated, scrambling external scans. Around them, the escort cars adjusted formation seamlessly.
Inside the hidden Zola facility, Vasili's console blinked with real-time feedback. Data flickered with Fury's rerouting signal.
"He rerouted," he said. "He knows something's wrong."
Alexander stepped toward the screen, fists clenched. "Can we warn him?"
"No," Vasili replied, voice grim. "Signal's blocked. They're jamming everything outbound from that corridor."
Noctis phased beside them, his glow pulsing urgently. "Then we move. Now."
Outside, their jet was already priming for takeoff. The team burst out of the facility entrance, shadows cloaking them like a second skin. They didn't speak. They didn't need to. The mission had shifted—this was no longer reconnaissance.
It was rescue.
Back in D.C., Fury's vehicle entered the East Tunnel. The shadows lengthened inside, wrapping around the walls like a closed fist. For a moment, everything remained quiet—eerily quiet. The tunnel was long, curving slightly to the left, and oddly deserted for this time of day.
The second SUV suddenly swerved, tires screeching.
Then the explosion hit.
A blast tore through the tunnel's center, flipping the lead vehicle and scattering debris across the road. The shockwave rippled through the tunnel, throwing sparks and fire in its wake. The SUV with Fury was rocked off its axis, slamming into the side wall. Smoke engulfed the scene.
Fury groaned, disoriented but conscious. His ears rang. His HUD flickered. "Status?" he barked.
No answer.
He pulled himself up and looked around. The driver slumped against the steering wheel. Blood trickled down his forehead.
A second explosion triggered at the far exit, boxing them in.
Black-clad operatives in full tactical gear emerged from service tunnels. They moved with precision—HYDRA-trained. Silent. Efficient. Their formation was tight, their weapons already raised.
Fury grabbed his sidearm and opened the rear door. Shots rang out the moment he exited. He dove behind the SUV for cover, returning fire with calm precision honed by decades of field work.
But there were too many.
They began to fan out, slowly tightening the circle around him.
A vehicle approached slowly through the smoke. Sleek. Black. Unmarked.
It stopped a few feet from the wreck.
The door opened.
A figure stepped out.
Not masked.
Not armored.
A man with a scar across his jaw and eyes that gleamed with familiarity.
"Director Fury," he said, almost casually. "You've been living on borrowed time."
Fury raised his weapon.
The man didn't flinch. His voice was cold, his stance relaxed.
"I'd put that down," he said, gesturing slightly.
And from the far end of the tunnel, footsteps echoed—measured, mechanical.
Fury's eyes narrowed.
Then he saw him.
The second figure walked calmly through the smoke, the air shimmering behind him. Dressed in black tactical gear, a metal arm gleamed under the flickering lights. His face was partially shadowed, but Fury knew.
He knew.
The Winter Soldier.
No words were exchanged. The assassin simply stepped beside the scarred man and stared forward.
Fury exhaled. "So that's how it is."
The Winter Soldier raised his rifle.
Fury fired first.
End of Chapter 93
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