In Your Eyes // Steve Rogers

2

Ten minutes out from our landing point, my second in command, Brock Rumlow, gathered the team in the head of the Quinjet for a debriefing. He slid the information on the mission from his tablet to the monitor on the wall. Blueprints of the ship, the Lemurian Star, were studied by the team.

"The target is a mobile satellite launch platform: the Lemurian Star," introduced Rumlow. "They were sending up their last payload when pirates took them, ninety three minutes ago."

"Any demands?" asked Steve.

"Billion and a half," I answered.

"Why so steep?"

"It's S.H.I.E.L.D's."

Steve failed to hold back his sour expression. "So, it's not off course. It's trespassing."

"I'm sure they have a good reason," defended Natasha. Attempting to make him back down, she stared at him, hard eyes narrowed.

Steve did the opposite and grumbled, "You know, I'm getting a little tired of being Fury's janitor."

"Relax. It's not that complicated," she muttered.

"How many pirates?" asked Steve, his eyes on me.

"Twenty five top mercenaries led by..." I paused to drag my finger across the screen, revealing a picture of their leader, "Georges Batroc. Ex-DGSE, Action Division. He's at the top of Interpol's Red Notice. Before the French demobilized him, he had thirty six kill missions. He holds a rep for maximum casualties."

"How many hostages?"

"They're mostly techs," I estimated. "The only strange thing is that there's one officer on board: Jasper Sitwell."

"What's Sitwell doing on a launch ship?" muttered Steve. Remembering the team was waiting on their assignments, he shook his head. "Clara, you and I will sweep the deck. I'll find Batroc. Nat, kill the engines and wait for instructions. Rumlow, you sweep aft, find the hostages, get them to life pods, get them out. Let's move."

"S.T.R.I.K.E, you heard Cap," said Rumlow. "Gear up."

I moved to study the blueprint. If I was going to give Steve and I a beneficial landing point, I was in need of a specific coordinate on the top deck.

Intent focus clouded my thoughts for several minutes. Natasha's question of, "Doin' anything Saturday night?" broke my concentration. I found myself eager for Steve's answer.

"Well, all the guys in my barber shop quartet are dead, so, no, not really," said Steve cheekily.

"You know, if you asked Kristen from Statistics out, she'd probably say yes."

"That's why I don't ask."

"Coming on the drop zone," came the pilot's voice over the intercom.

I programmed the back hatch of the Quinjet to open. The fluorescent lights of the room switched to a flashing red. I stepped to the edge of the platform, adjusting my gloves over my fingers. I peered out into the clouds.

"What are you feeling today, Cap? Portal? Parachute?" I shouted over the wind.

"I think I'll jump," decided Steve. "Thank you, though."

Not over his decline, Natasha yelled, "Too shy, or too scared?"

"Too busy!" he answered. Ridding her interrogation for the time being, he ran the remaining distance, then leaped from the Quinjet.

A team member raced forward. "Did he have a parachute?"

"'Course not," I responded, laughing. "Give is about six minutes before you guys drop it, okay?"