"Autopilot. Get out of Washington, now!" Pierce was old, his eyesight poor and his reactions slow. Racing a pack of assassins on public roads was simply asking too much of him.
Cutting off the onboard computer's rambling, he handed control directly to the vehicle, moved into the passenger seat, and began checking the many functions on the control panel.
"Activate vertical takeoff?"
"Flight system damaged."
The old man glanced at the deformed phone in his hand. "Open the communications system!"
"Communications system damaged."
At Daisy's instruction, the Science Division had installed many new functions in the bulletproof car. Quite a few of the designs looked impressive without explaining anything, and Pierce had no idea what they meant. He inspected every instrument and control on the panel from top to bottom. "Is there anything that isn't damaged?"
"The air-conditioning system is functioning normally."
The old man's lips trembled with rage. By every relative he had, both those in heaven and those who had failed to make it there, he swore that if he survived and returned to power in S.H.I.E.L.D., he would teach the Science Division a bloody lesson.
The onboard computer was not very intelligent and operated with extreme rigidity. They had barely crossed two streets before the pursuers caught up.
The attackers did not care whether they were in a busy district or whether pedestrians surrounded them. Wearing police uniforms, they simply opened fire on Pierce's Chevrolet.
The vehicle's damage level continued rising. Most importantly, he could not shake the pursuers at all. No matter how well armored a vehicle was, sustained gunfire would eventually break through.
A thunderous explosion rang out. Pierce felt as though he had soared into the clouds. He knew the rocket had finally struck him. The attacker had hit a remarkably precise point and flipped the car outright.
Bullets then hammered against the vehicle like torrential rain.
I'm finished. Pierce listened to the gunfire outside as though it were a symphony, the funeral dirge being played for his death.
As he listened, the gunfire suddenly stopped. Then a silver-white arm seized the car door. With a crack, the already badly damaged door was ripped off from the outside.
The Winter Soldier had finally arrived, long hair hanging loose and weapons covering his body. He had not only killed every pursuer, but also saved Pierce at the critical moment.
His eyes, however, remained utterly cold. He looked at everyone as though they were stones, Pierce included despite being his superior.
"Move! Get me out of here!" Pierce was overjoyed. He believed his life had finally been saved. Now he had to hide before the various factions arrived.
He understood the situation perfectly. Gunfire in New York was normal, but gunfire in Washington was far too serious. These assassins were not from S.H.I.E.L.D. The organization was already walking on thin ice and would never take such a reckless action. Some high-ranking government or military figure wanted him dead and was willing to break the unspoken rules to achieve it.
If S.H.I.E.L.D. captured him, the old man might preserve his life by pretending to be insane. Those other people would offer no such assurance.
Bucky Barnes pulled Pierce toward an alley. The two quickly lost the pursuers, stole an unlicensed car, and left Washington.
At that moment, Daisy did not know Pierce had escaped. She was visiting Brock Rumlow alone, and naturally every surveillance system had been shut down.
"Rumlow, are you all right?" She had good reason to ask. Brock Rumlow looked terrible. His face was deathly pale, and from time to time his entire body shook like a sieve. At first glance, Daisy almost thought he had awakened some kind of vibration power.
Rumlow raised his head with difficulty. He stared for a long while before recognizing the visitor.
"Me...?" he rasped out a single word, then closed his mouth and remained silent for a very long time.
Daisy could only describe the power of the Mind Scepter as unbelievable. Loki, Pierce, and Brock Rumlow had all been controlled by it, yet each displayed a different reaction. The man before her felt as though his convictions had been shaken.
"Am I Hydra or S.H.I.E.L.D.?" He struck his own head as he spoke. The clear arrangement that had once existed in his mind—S.H.I.E.L.D. on the outside, Hydra within—had been shattered by the Mind Scepter. He had lost himself.
At one moment, Brock Rumlow believed he was an elite agent who fought on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s front lines. At the next, he believed he was a warrior who had devoted his life to Hydra's grand cause.
Who was he? Rumlow's psychological defenses had completely collapsed. Two versions of himself fought inside his mind, causing him unbearable pain.
From the corner of her eye, Daisy glanced at the Hydra agents by the door. Her voice softened to a whisper. "You're a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Have you forgotten?"
"A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent? Then Hydra is...?" Rumlow looked utterly lost.
"You're a S.H.I.E.L.D. spy planted inside Hydra. How could you forget even that?" Daisy's voice became appropriately sterner, as though he had said something especially ridiculous.
"Is that so?" Rumlow was completely confused. Had these two identities always operated that way within him? On closer thought, it made sense. He had indeed risked his life for S.H.I.E.L.D. countless times, and he had also participated in many Hydra operations.
The order of cause and effect was quietly reversed. At first glance, there seemed to be nothing wrong with it.
His gaze grew slightly firmer. His brain began operating from the foundation of this identity as a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Many things that had previously seemed unreasonable suddenly appeared to have explanations.
Daisy saw Grant Ward beckoning to her from the doorway and knew something had happened.
Brainwashing Brock Rumlow could not be accomplished in one attempt. Daisy spoke gently to him. "I'll visit you again. Rest well. S.H.I.E.L.D. still needs you."
After leaving the room, Grant Ward reported that Pierce had escaped.
"Oh? The old bastard still had connections. I underestimated him. Where's the double-dealing traitor who helped him?"
Ward gestured, and his subordinates brought the middle-aged man before her.
Daisy did not say a word, but the intense psychological pressure she exerted destroyed the last of the man's courage. S.H.I.E.L.D. was an intelligence organization with little oversight and little humanity to begin with. Hydra was even worse—it was a terrorist organization. The middle-aged man was terrified.
Once his courage vanished, his knees bent on their own. He knelt before Daisy, muttering pleas for mercy.
At S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, Daisy paid close attention to how she dressed. She rarely wore an agent combat uniform anymore. She was part of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s leadership, not a field agent. She had to maintain the appropriate dignity.
Many kinds of casual clothing were no longer acceptable. Jeans and canvas shoes were entirely out of the question.
Ward handled this aspect particularly well. His distinctive leather jacket automatically set him apart from ordinary agents.
Daisy currently wore a women's suit with a white shirt underneath. A fitted pencil skirt hugged her hips and emphasized her upright posture and flawless figure. Her calves were as fair as jade, and her high heels were spotless, reflecting a faint gleam.
She sat in a high-backed chair. Unlike many women who crossed their legs, she raised one lower leg slightly with the toe of her shoe angled outward. That tiny difference lent her seated posture an edge of severity other women lacked.