"Any hostages?" Steve asked.
Rumlow nodded and pulled up the manifest.
"Yes. Mostly technical personnel. But there's also a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent aboard."
He enlarged a profile photo—a bald man wearing glasses.
"Jasper Sitwell. Active S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. He was overseeing operations on the ship. He and the other hostages are being held in the galley."
Steve stared at the photo. He knew Sitwell. A senior agent. A familiar face around headquarters.
"What was Sitwell doing on a satellite launch vessel?"
Steve might have been from another era, but he wasn't naïve. The moment a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent became part of the equation, things stopped being simple.
No one answered.
Even Natasha remained silent.
That silence confirmed his suspicion.
Fine.
"I'll sweep the upper decks and locate Batroc. Natasha, disable the engines. Rumlow, you and your team secure the stern and extract the hostages. Move out."
Steve headed toward the rear hatch.
"Strike team, you heard him. Gear up."
Rumlow's squad immediately began final checks—ammo, comms, weapons.
The Quinjet descended through the clouds. As it dropped lower, it shifted into silent mode. Engine noise faded. External lights powered down.
In the night sky, the aircraft became a silent predator.
Natasha handed Steve his earpiece.
"You really need hobbies, Steve. You can't live in the gym forever. If nothing else, visit Karl in New York. I'm sure they'd welcome you."
"You know… everyone I used to hang out with is gone. And I still don't quite fit in with this time."
He hesitated.
"At least you figured out smartphones. And automatic transmissions."
She smiled.
Steve chuckled. She was right. Lately his life consisted of punching sandbags or wandering S.H.I.E.L.D. corridors.
Maybe it was time to move forward.
"You should move to New York after this," Natasha added. "You've got friends there."
"Peggy's in D.C. I'm not leaving her."
Seventy years later, she was frail and gray-haired.
He was unchanged.
But he was still the same man who loved her.
Natasha had visited Peggy with him. She knew Peggy's condition. She also knew Peggy had asked her to encourage Steve to live his life instead of clinging to the past.
"Target in sight," the pilot's voice interrupted.
Steve stepped toward the hatch.
"You can't live in yesterday forever, Steve. Peggy wouldn't want that."
He didn't respond.
But with enhanced hearing, he had heard every word.
The rear hatch opened.
"I'll go first. Follow."
Without hesitation, Steve leapt.
The Quinjet was still over a thousand meters above the ocean.
"Sir—he doesn't have a parachute!" one strike team member blurted.
"He doesn't need one," Rumlow replied calmly.
---
Freefall
Wind howled past Steve as he plummeted.
The ship below grew rapidly in size.
No panic.
Body straight. Reduced drag.
He accelerated.
At the last moment before impact, he rotated—feet first—and pierced the ocean's surface like a spear.
He sank more than ten meters before buoyancy neutralized the fall.
Breaking the surface, he swam silently toward the massive anchor chain and climbed aboard.
A lone pirate patrolled nearby.
Steve slipped behind him, locked an arm around his neck—
Crack.
The man collapsed without a sound.
Steve examined the fallen mercenary's gear.
Top-tier equipment.
Far too professional for "pirates."
Fury was hiding something.
Again.
He moved deeper into the vessel.
Voices ahead.
Two men.
He advanced swiftly.
The shield flew from his hand.
It struck the first mercenary in the throat, ricocheted off the deck—
Steve leapt, caught it midair, and hurled it again.
The second man dropped seconds later.
No gunshots.
Minimal noise.
Efficient.
Steve slung the shield onto his back and rounded the deck—
Four armed mercenaries spotted him instantly and raised their rifles.
Too slow.
He snapped the shield forward and simultaneously grabbed the nearest rifle, fingers locking onto the bolt assembly.
A twist—jammed.
A punch—unconscious.
The shield smashed into another rifle, shattering it on impact. Vibranium met steel. Steel lost.
The shield rebounded.
Steve kicked it midair, redirecting it into a third mercenary's neck.
Down.
He closed on the fourth before the man could call for help.
A blur of motion.
Blackness.
Silence returned to the deck.
Steve retrieved his shield.
This was only the beginning.
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