Taskmaster never expected to square off against Wolverine.
As a tactical prodigy burdened with photographic reflexes, Anthony Masters could perfectly replicate the physical movements of any target he observed. That exact skill had made him one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s elite Level 7 field instructors before he went rogue. He had spent hours meticulously analyzing combat footage of the world's heavy hitters. Captain America. Daredevil. Iron Fist. Wolverine.
Taskmaster handled ordinary superhumans before breakfast. He could even toy with heavyweights like Spider-Man, mostly because the kid constantly held back to avoid killing people. But Wolverine? Wolverine was a disgusting matchup.
Superhuman strength? Taskmaster dealt with bruisers every day. He knew how to leverage momentum against raw power. Superhuman speed? He had conditioned his reflexes to keep pace. Even Wolverine's adamantium skeleton and feral, beast-like martial arts were manageable. Taskmaster had already memorized every savage swipe and calculated the exact parry.
The real problem was Wolverine's combat philosophy. The mutant fought with a reckless, suicidal strategy, perfectly willing to absorb twelve thousand fatal wounds just to land a single killing strike. Taskmaster couldn't out-attrition a man who regenerated from everything.
"This would've been much easier as an ambush," Taskmaster muttered, watching Logan drop into a low, animalistic crouch. "I didn't pack the adamantium-grade nets."
Taskmaster raised his 9mm pistol. He dumped the entire magazine. Sparks rained down as the rounds flattened against Logan's indestructible skull and ribcage. Wolverine didn't even flinch. He just pushed off the dirt and lunged.
Taskmaster holstered the empty gun and smoothly drew a compact folding bow from his waist. He nocked an arrow, aiming directly at Logan's forehead. He knew exactly how Wolverine would react. The mutant possessed a primal danger sense—not as finely tuned as Spider-Man's precognition, but sharp enough to trigger an instinctive defense.
Block or dodge? Taskmaster thought, his finger slipping from the bowstring.
It didn't matter.
The arrow detonated mid-flight. It didn't spray shrapnel. Instead, it deployed a high-tensile tripwire weighted with heavy alloy spheres. The bola wrapped viciously around Logan's legs, sending the charging mutant crashing face-first into the dirt.
Logan instantly brought his claws down to sever the wire. Taskmaster stepped into the gap. He flicked his wrist, burying three specialized darts deep into Logan's exposed shoulder.
"Tranquilizer," Taskmaster stated, delivering a brutal, steel-toed kick to Logan's stomach. "Concentrated enough to drop an elephant. With your ridiculous metabolic rate, it might only buy me thirty seconds of dizziness. But thirty seconds is all I need."
Logan gritted his teeth, his hand shooting out to wrap around Taskmaster's ankle in a vice grip. He flashed a bloody, feral smile. "Might not be that easy, bub."
Taskmaster didn't panic. He shifted his center of gravity, hooked his arms firmly under Logan's armpits, and executed a flawless, leverage-heavy suplex. He slammed the six-hundred-pound mutant backward into the earth with bone-rattling force.
Taskmaster smoothly drew his broadsword. "You're a hassle in an encounter, Wolverine. But I know your entire playbook by heart. I can counter your every twitch."
Logan kicked out from the dirt. Taskmaster simply hopped backward, effortlessly clearing the strike zone. Logan sprang to his feet, smirking. "Saw that coming, did ya?"
Taskmaster noticed the heavy alloy shield gripped in Logan's left hand.
His tactical mind short-circuited for a fraction of a second. Wolverine doesn't use a shield. He has an indestructible skeleton. Why is he holding a shield?
Logan wound up and hurled the metal disc like a frisbee.
From the tall grass, Steve Rogers sprang upward. He caught the shield perfectly mid-stride. He didn't break his momentum, charging straight toward the Winter Soldier in a tactical sprint that looked entirely different from his earlier fighting style.
Taskmaster stared at the man closing the distance. "Oh, hell. That's Steve Rogers."
Logan lunged. "Hey, Skull," he growled, swiping his claws upward. "I think you got the batting order wrong."
Adamantium sheared through Taskmaster's skull mask, cleanly bisecting the helmet and exposing a dark, Middle Eastern face underneath. Taskmaster stumbled backward, bringing his broadsword up into a two-handed defensive guard.
The situation had completely degraded.
A voice crackled sharply in Taskmaster's earpiece. The handlers monitoring the battle were panicking. Fall back. Immediate extraction.
"I fully agree," Taskmaster grunted, parrying a savage downward slash from Logan. "But why the sudden rush?"
Across the battlefield, Steve Rogers closed in on his target. The Winter Soldier fired his grenade launcher. Steve didn't dodge. He vaulted forward, using the curve of his shield to catch the live explosive perfectly in the center. In a single, fluid motion, Steve hurled the shield straight up. The grenade detonated safely in mid-air. Steve caught the descending shield and slammed boots-first into the dirt, directly in front of the assassin.
"Bucky!" Steve yelled, his voice tearing. "It's me! Steve!"
The Winter Soldier didn't hesitate. He swung the heavy barrel of the grenade launcher like a baseball bat, slamming it against Steve's shield. Steve absorbed the kinetic shock, dropped low, and swept his leg out in a brutal kick aimed at the soldier's knees. The Winter Soldier took the hit like a brick wall. He didn't even stagger.
The assassin planted his feet and drove his gleaming metal fist straight into the alloy shield. CLANG.
The metallic crack echoed across the valley. Steve gritted his teeth, his boots sliding back an inch in the dirt. He shoved hard, breaking the grapple. The Winter Soldier merely took a half-step back, let the grenade launcher drop to its sling, and drew a combat dagger. He stepped back into the fray.
Steve blocked a vicious downward stab with his shield. He closed the distance, pressing his body tight against the Winter Soldier to smother his reach. Steve trapped the assassin's left leg, anchoring him to the earth.
The Winter Soldier countered, his metal arm clamping onto the rim of Steve's shield. He twisted his torso, trying to pin Steve's arm to open up a fatal stab to the gut.
Steve threw a brutal headbutt.
Bone crunched against bone. The Winter Soldier blinked, his grip faltering for a microsecond. Steve spun on his heel. He launched a flying kick, his boot connecting squarely with the side of the assassin's head. The force of the blow snapped the tactical mask free, sending it tumbling into the grass.
Steve stared at the face.
It really was Bucky Barnes.
"Your name is James Buchanan Barnes," Steve said, his chest heaving, his voice desperate. "You were born on March 10, 1917. You are the eldest of four brothers in Hell's Kitchen. Do you remember?"
The Winter Soldier froze. A flicker of profound confusion crossed his cold eyes. He tightened his grip on his dagger. He slashed outward. Steve deflected the blade and kept talking.
"When you were thirteen, you saw a little kid from the orphanage getting beaten up by bullies in an alley behind a movie theater. You stepped in. You saved him!"
Steve grabbed the rim of his shield with both hands and shoved it hard against Bucky's chest, forcing him back.
"Before you even came of age, you won three YMCA middleweight boxing matches. Remember? That same little kid was in the crowd cheering for you every single time!"
The Winter Soldier lowered his knife a fraction of an inch. His breathing turned ragged. He stared at Steve, lost in a fractured labyrinth of erased memories.
"You enlisted right after Pearl Harbor in 1941!" Steve yelled over the crackling fires. "You were assigned to the 107th Infantry Regiment in 1943! You were in the exact same unit as that little kid's father!"
Bucky stared at the man in front of him. His lips parted. He looked like he was finally about to ask a question.
Heavy, deafening machine-gun fire ripped through the dirt between them. Steve dove sideways behind his shield as an unmarked Quinjet descended from the clouds. The aircraft hovered ten feet off the ground. Specialized mercenaries leaned out the open cargo bay, laying down a wall of suppressive fire to separate the two men. A thick extraction cable dropped from the bay doors.
The Winter Soldier grabbed the rope. In seconds, he was hoisted up and pulled into the belly of the jet. The engines roared, blasting dust into Steve's face as the aircraft banked hard and vanished into the sky.
Steve knelt in the dirt, clutching his shield.
For perhaps the second time since waking up from the ice, Captain America swore out loud.
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