DAYWALKER | n.romanoff

THREE

CHAPTER THREE
' IT'S WHO I AM. '

The Blade leaned against the counter in the kitchen with her helmet in the sink, submerged in soapy water, and her face still concealed by her balaclava. The weapons usually strapped to her person were scattered across the floor while her clothes dried on the various radiators lining Sam's house. Meanwhile, she was dressed in some of her host's clothes, covering her body from head to toe.

The shower she'd taken had smudged her eyeblack, but it made her grey eyes more poignant without the bronze helmet over her head.

Sam awkwardly meandered between the knives and pointy objects to leave the room. Romanoff and Rogers began to tuck into their food, and the Blade turned to continue washing her helmet.

"So, the question is," Romanoff began. "Who in S.H.I.E.L.D. could launch a domestic missile strike?"

"Pierce," the Blade replied, her back still turned to them.

"Pierce?"

She lifted her helmet from the water, the suds pouring from the metal and splattering against the counter. A hum came her reply as she inspected its cleanliness.

"Who happens to be sitting on top of the most secure building in the world."

"But he's not working alone, Zola's algorithm was on the Lemurian Star," Rogers added.

"So was Jasper Sitwell."

"So, the real question is how do the three most wanted people in Washington kidnap a S.H.I.E.L.D. officer in broad daylight?"

The Blade turned to face them, using a tea towel to dry off her helmet.

"The answer is you don't." Sam appeared and threw a file onto the table.

"What's this?"

"Call it a resumé."

Romanoff tilted her head as her eyes flickered over the file. "Is this Bakhmala? The Khalid Khandil mission that was you." She looked at Rogers. "You didn't say he was a pararescue."

The Blade approached the table and peered at the file over Romanoff's shoulder.

Rogers looked at Sam. "Is this Riley?"

The two women shared a glance. "I heard they couldn't bring in the choppers because of the RPGs. What did you use, a stealth chute?"

"No. These."

As Sam handed the file to Rogers, they saw metallic wings.

They shared a glance again.

Rogers furrowed his eyebrows. "I thought you said you were a pilot."

"I never said pilot," he denied.

"I can't ask you to do this, Sam. You got out for a good reason."

"Dude, Captain America needs my help. There's no better reason to get back in."

"Where can we get our hands on one of these things?"

"The last one is at Fort Meade, behind three guarded gates and a twelve-inch steel wall."

"Blade? Could you do that?"

The Blade paused from where she approached the sink. After pulling the plug, she smiled at them over her shoulder. "With my fingers in my ass."

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Even over the violent winds, the screech of the Blade's sword was heard as she stalked Sitwell across the rooftop - his desperate scrambling combating her quick and steady steps by inches. Her boot on his chest halted his progress and trapped him where he whimpered with both her strength and fear.