Finding Home

Chapter 2

I watched as the Avengers landed and surrounded the building below.

Three years. I managed to avoid them - virtually - for three years.

Why now? Why here? Why couldn't they have just waited a little longer? I could have made this so much easier for them.

I had already taken out three guards within the compound from my nest. Knowing there was only one target left before my mission was complete, I held my position. If I had already been made, then this last shot would only take seconds away from the time I needed for my escape, critical seconds.

Lying prone on the ground, the butt of the rifle pulled tight into my shoulder, I took aim. Blissfully unaware of the approaching danger, I found myself slipping into the zone — that moment before every shot when the crosshairs and the mark are almost perfectly aligned. Without fully immersing oneself into that zone, it's hard to find that precise moment patiently.

A hair off at 1000 yards, and the shot will miss by 15 feet, alerting your target and giving away your position. All of your scouting and preparation can be wasted if you didn't get every last calculation right. Timing the rise and fall of the crosshairs with each bated breath. Visualizing the bullet's path as it travels through its natural arc, rising from the moment it exits the weapon's barrel until it reaches apogee and begins its descent to the earth. If all is perfect, somewhere along the bullet's path lies your mark. It all comes down to the moment your finger squeezes the trigger sending the firing pin forward to set off the primer, sending the bullet on its way.

The target moved ever closer to the desired location. Just as I found the moment of zen with my crosshairs on my target's head and the flesh of my finger compressed against the trigger, I felt the cold, hard pressure of a muzzle on the posterior of my skull.

I had always been, and continue to be, the best in my field. So there was only one person - on this planet, at least - that could get this close without alerting me.

Turning slightly - in my peripherals were the steel-blue eyes of one James Buchanan Barnes.

"Hands off the weapon," he ordered hoarsely.

"Когда-либо Солдат. (Ever the Soldier)," I retorted snidely in my native tongue, rolling onto my side slightly, lifting my hands in surrender.

"Stand... please," he responded slowly, his eyes narrowed, and his shoulders tense.

I knew there was no sense trying to fight him. He had the upper hand in this situation. Leaving my rifle resting on the bi-pod, I obeyed, slowly, so as not to startle him.

"Alright," I droned. "You win, Soldier."

With my mask still across my face and hood up, he was only able to see my eyes. I watch as his own narrow slightly as the confusion sets in, still never breaking his concentration completely.

Without a word, he takes my arm and walks me back to the quinjet. Both of our weapons slung over his shoulder.

After tightly strapping me into one of the seats, he takes a position across from me - silently watching and waiting for the rest of the group. I can see in his eyes that he is unsure of me, treating me as a threat for the time being.

I hear the rest of the team coming in no time and turn toward the ramp as they make their way onto the aircraft.

"What are you doing here?" Steve's voice echoed.

When I look up at him, I keep silent. He stands towering over me, his helmet still on. I silently focus back on Bucky as he spoke in my stead. "She's the one who took out those three men we found when we first arrived. She was lining up another shot when I found her, so I brought her here."