america's assassin ➻ steve rogers

three

"Mia," A voice woke me from my sleep and my eyes were wide open, breath coming in shallow gasps in the darkness of the room. My window was open and the curtains were billowing from the wind outside, the moonlight illuminating my bedroom. I was not alone. I clenched my eyes shut, shifting in what I hoped was a convincing sleeping move as I reached underneath my pillow and closed my hand around the gun I kept there. My other hand moved under the covers, grasping at the knife still strapped to my thigh. I breathed one, two, three. There was a miniscule movement in the corner by the wardrobe. In a movement faster than even I'd thought I could move, I'd rolled and sat up with my gun aimed and blasting a shot. The gunshot rang through the small room but a figure dropped to the floor.

The dark stain of blood stained my cream carpet, but the threat hadn't been eliminated. Another figure stepped from the darkness on the opposite side to the other person, near the windows. My gun was cocked but they were already on me. We careened over the side of the bed, meeting the floor in a hit that dislocated my shoulder on impact. I swallowed the yell of pain. I tussled with the person, getting a hit right in the jaw that confirmed he was male with the sound he made. He aimed something, a knife, at my side, but I rolled at the last second to avoid it. He was back on top of me moments later, aiming for my throat. I pretended to struggle for one moment before I pushed the knife hidden on my thigh right into his ribcage. A muffled gasp came from his mouth as he sagged against me, his knife forgotten by his side. I felt the warm wetness of blood spread over my clothes and against my skin. Just when I'd thought he was done, he struck out lightning fast with his hand and closed it around my throat, squeezing until I saw stars.

My first, automatic, instinct was to try and wrench his hand away from my throat but my second instinct, the one that had been drilled into me for my entire life didn't react. Even as he continued to squeeze, using the last of his strength to try and kill me, and my vision grew hazier, I reached out with my hand and searched for the knife he had dropped. My fingers brushed the sharp edge of the blade moments later and I might have gasped if I'd been able to when they sliced open. I inched my fingers forward a little further and grasped onto the hilt.

The edges of my vision turned dark and my hand faltered on the hilt of the knife, slick with sweat, before I grit my teeth and brought up the knife with the rest of my strength and plunged it into the side of his throat. Warm blood spurted across my face, the acrid taste of iron in my mouth, as he fell against me and this time didn't move again. With a painful gasp, I pushed the heavy body from mine and stood on shaking legs, hurrying to pick my gun up from where I'd dropped it in the fall from the bed and held it cocked in front of me, waiting for the next fight. Another fight didn't come though, and the person that burst through the door of my bedroom was Natasha. She had her own gun raised and let it fall to her side when she saw me and the two bodies at my feet. I dropped mine.

"What the hell happened here?" She asked, eyes wide as she snapped on the lights and temporarily blinded me. I rubbed a hand over my throat and knew it would bruise.

"Someone finally came to kill me." She looked around the room and snorted.

"And they only sent two? Rookie mistake," She said.

"They didn't know what hit 'em," I said, wiping blood away from my nose and wincing at the burst of pain from my shoulder. Nat watched me carefully before she turned to the open doorway and shouted through it.

"We'll need a medic in here." She turned back to me. "Who were they?" I glanced at the bodies on the ground and shrugged.

"No idea," I sighed. "Could be Silver's men, I guess." A look flashed on Nat's face.

"Silver thinks you're dead."

"Silver watches the news," I told her. "And Stark's party was all over it." The thought had crossed my mind the second I'd seen Captain America's face on my screen the night before, grinning as he chatted with a man I didn't recognise. I'd stuck my tongue out and thrown my shoe at the television. The cameraperson liked to focus on Steve Rogers, panning in on him every few moments and there I was, being led outside by Captain America, his hand on the small of my back. I'd felt sick looking at myself back on camera then, and even more so now.

"There's no way." Nat shook her head in denial. I raised a single brow.

"You're going to stand there and tell me I'm seen alive, documented on television of all places, and not a full twenty-four hours later a threat is made on my life and it isn't Silver behind it?" Nat's hands were on her hips, her lips pursed.

"Why now?" She asked. I barked one harsh laugh.

"This is the first time in a year I've left this building," I reminded her. "Maybe he didn't know I was alive before, but he knows now." Nat swore and crossed over to the bedroom window, slamming it down shut and pulling the curtains taut. The medic had just crossed into my room when Nat was barking orders for them to leave us.

"Natasha," I snapped. "My shoulder is dislocated." I glared at her as the scared girl hurried away. She sent me a withering look before pulling open the closet.

"Pack your things," She said.

"Dislocated shoulder." She huffed.

"Alright, I'll pack your things," She said, throwing the suitcase that had never been used from the bottom of my closet and onto the bed. I watched her hurry to throw things from all corners of my room into it. My nose scrunched when she flung a handful of underwear into the case and didn't even check to see if they matched.

"Am I going on a trip?" I asked, dry humour clear in my voice. Nat didn't spare me a glance as she zipped the case shut.

"Let's go," She said.

"Nat, wait," I dug my heels in. "Where am I going?"

"The compound," She said. "You're obviously not safe here anymore."