“I don’t sulk,” Katherine said. “You should have told me. This is my life at stake.”
Steve had to admit she had a point.
“You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
Katherine looked at him in surprise.
“You mean that?”
“Yes, you have a right to know these things,” Steve said. “When I get back tonight I’ll fill you in on everything I know so far.”
“Um, surely you know I’m coming with you, right?”
“What?” Steve said. “That’s not the way it works.”
“If you go without me, I won’t be here when you get back.”
“You really would be better off here,” Steve said. “You think this place is a dump? Wait until you get a load of where I’m going. It’s a disgusting place full of disgusting people.”
“Sounds like the clubs my friends drag me to sometimes,” Katherine said. “Steve, stop treating me like a fragile flower—I’m not half as delicate as you seem to think I am.”
“I know—it’s just, old habits die hard,” Steve said. “I was raised to treat a lady—I mean a woman, sorry—a certain way. It’s hard to overcome that sort of upbringing, even if I wanted to.”
“Well, you don’t need to change too much, Steve. If you weren’t so straitlaced you wouldn’t be you anymore,” she said with what sounded affection in her voice. “Just don’t make the mistake of thinking I’m fragile. This affects me, and I don’t want you keeping me out of helping find out what we need to know out of some paternalistic concern.”
Steve sighed. He was smart enough to know when he was fighting a losing battle, and decided not to prolong the inevitable.
“I’ll do my best, but at the risk of sounding like a parent—let’s get some sleep. We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”
Chapter 7
Anacostia, Washington, D.C.: 1700 hours
A hush fell across the room as Steve and Katherine stepped into the bar, and it felt like every eye in the barroom was staring at them. After a few seconds that seemed to stretch out forever, the conversations started up again as the patrons turned back to whatever business they were conducting.
“You take me to such nice places,” Katherine said sardonically, looking around.
Steve had to agree; it wasn’t the nicest bar he’d ever been in, and he’d seen some pretty rank dives in his time. The place reeked of cigarette smoke and vomit, and there were stains on the carpet that could have been anything from beer to blood, and that were probably a mix of both. The fittings were beaten and battered, and the beer looked weak and watered down. Anyone walking in off the street could have been forgiven for thinking the bar was a low-class establishment for washed-out characters. But a more observant eye would have noticed that most of the patrons were especially well muscled, and that all moved with the air of those accustomed to taking care of themselves. Very few customers were actually doing much drinking, and instead nursed a single drink while they talked. And the eyes, while no longer obviously on the newcomers, were still sizing them up with a sharpness that no drunk possessed.
“You did insist on coming along,” Steve said.
“I wasn’t staying at the apartment alone,” she replied. “Anyway, nothing at this place could compare to the cockroaches in that dump you found for us.”
Steve didn’t have much faith in his hasty disguise of a trench coat and sunglasses, but it had been the best he could do. Even if his face hadn’t been on the news again and again, he had encountered many of the people currently sizing him up, so he figured it was only a matter of time before someone recognized him. The crowd was a mix of low-level villains and criminals. Some were experienced mercenaries, while others had minor powers of their own that they now applied to petty crime—they were the kind of people who made a living working for those with real power and money. It wasn’t that they weren’t good at what they did, or dangerous in their own way—it was simply that they didn’t play in the big leagues. These were the people that Steve went through to get to the really bad guys. These people would escape in the chaos, or get picked up and do a little time, and then they’d get hired by the next megalomaniac bent on world domination.
That didn’t mean the people in the bar could be taken for granted. Steve stayed alert and ready as he moved through the room, knowing that many of these people would bear grudges for the times that they had come up against him and paid the price. If someone did recognize him, he could only hope that those encounters were still fresh enough in their minds that they would be dissuaded from trying anything now. The bar was known as a no-combat zone, a place where criminals could conduct their business without worrying about too much attention from the authorities, and so they refrained from doing anything ostentatious that might attract notice. But custom only stretched so far—it would only take one person letting his need for vengeance get the better of him to set off a mob.
As Steve and Katherine neared the bar, the bartender looked up from listlessly swabbing at a ground-in stain with a dirty rag. He had a pale, sallow face, a pencil-thin mustache, and lank, greasy black hair that was combed away from a ruler-straight side part.
“What can I getcha?”
“I’m looking for a man called Wóbser,” Steve said.
“Sorry, don’t know him. Bar is for paying customers only, friend, so what can I getcha? Or do I need to ask you to leave?”
Steve sighed, and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. He placed it in front of the bartender, who reached for it. Before it could disappear, Steve’s hand flashed out as quick as a snake and grabbed the man’s wrist. Steve squeezed, not hard enough to cause any damage, but hard enough to let the man know that he could if he wanted to.
“Are you sure you don’t know my friend . . . friend?” Steve asked.
“Now that I think about it, I think I do,” the man said weakly. “He’s over there, in the corner booth.”
Steve looked over to where the bartender pointed at a big blond man sitting with his friends, laughing at some joke. The smile didn’t reach the man’s green eyes, which were as cold and appraising as a reptile’s. He was dressed in a blue business suit, but it was straight off the rack, not a tailored item, so when Wóbser twisted a certain way in his seat, Steve could make out the bulge of a gun in a shoulder holster. The two men next to Wóbser didn’t look like much to worry about; they had the look of sycophants trying to ride Wóbser’s coattails. They’d follow his lead, for good or bad, but at the sign of any real trouble Steve had no doubt they’d skulk away like rats deserting a sinking ship.
“Thank you. That’s very helpful of you,” Steve said. He released the bartender’s wrist and grimaced as he wiped his hand on his trouser leg, not liking the oily feel of the man’s skin.
Rogers was halfway across the room when he realized that Katherine was no longer with him. He looked back to find that she had been stopped in her tracks by a huge figure looming over her. Steve moved quickly toward them, but before he could reach them, the man reached out and grabbed Katherine’s upper arm. He was almost seven feet tall, with a sloping brow and thick, black, curly hair. Steve recognized him from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s files—he was a low-level metahuman called Sergi who made a living as hired muscle. He didn’t have super strength—just that proportionate to that weight of muscle—but given that he must have weighed about three hundred and fifty pounds and none of it fat, that was normally enough power to deal with most normal threats to his employer of the day. Next to Sergi, Katherine looked childlike, resembling a doll that he could snap like a twig if he chose.
That didn’t seem to bother Katherine at all and, as Steve watched, she drove her fist into the big man’s stomach. Sergi barely flinched, but Katherine shook her hand in pain. It didn’t faze her for long, though, and Sergi’s booming laugh was cut off as she brought her knee up into his groin, doubling him over. When he straightened, al
l the humor had left his brutal face, and real anger clouded his expression. But by then, Steve was there and as Sergi swung a fist the size of a brick, Rogers reached up and caught it in his hand. Sergi’s look of surprise changed to one of pain as Steve squeezed and bones creaked.
“People tell me I’m old fashioned,” Steve said evenly. “It’s probably true. I might even be boring, I don’t know. But one thing I do know is that bothering young ladies who obviously don’t want to bothered is not very gentlemanly. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Stick it up your—”
Steve squeezed harder and Sergi sank to his knees with a moan. Such was his size that even on his knees he was looking straight into Steve’s eyes. Steve stared back at him.
“I said, wouldn’t you agree?”
Steve squeezed again, and this time he heard something pop.
“Yes, yes!” Sergi gasped. “It’s not very gentlemanly!”
“I guess you have something to say to the lady?”
“Um, I’m sorry?” Sergi ground the apology out between gritted teeth.
“That’s better,” Steve said. He turned his head slightly to look at Katherine. “Do you accept his apology?”
Katherine was trying not to laugh. “Sure.”
“Then let that be the end of it.”
He released Sergi’s hand, leaving the bigger man still on his knees and nursing his battered fist. He and Katherine were walking toward Wóbser when Steve heard a whisper of noise behind him. He spun just in time to catch Sergi’s massive fist right on the point of his chin. The sheer momentum behind it sent Rogers flying, landing on his back. Sergi loomed over him, raising a huge boot-clad foot over the prostrate hero, but before he could bring it down on Steve’s head, Katherine drove her foot into the back of Sergi’s knee with all her power. The joint bent around the blow, and Sergi let out a bellow of pain as he fell to one knee. Before he could stand up, Katherine pivoted into a perfect roundhouse kick, burying the ball of her foot in Sergi’s solar plexus.
Even as all the air left his lungs with an explosive grunt and he hunched forward around the blow, Katherine was grabbing Sergi’s hair and bringing her knee up to meet his face. Even after a second blow he wouldn’t go down, and still swayed slightly, but Katherine wasn’t finished. She balled both of her hands into one fist, and wound up, her hands finishing almost behind her head. She brought her fist through in a whistling arc, using all the power her body could generate, and hit Sergi on the back of his neck. There was crunch, and Sergi toppled forward with a crash that rattled the bottles on the mirrored shelves behind the bar.
The whole exchange had lasted perhaps fifteen seconds, if that, and was over by time Steve regained his feet. He walked over to the unconscious figure and, none to gently, poked him with his toe. Sergi didn’t even flinch, and certainly didn’t look like he would be getting up again. Steve flipped him over onto his back and checked his airways, then turned back to Katherine, who was waiting for him.
“You’re right, you know,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“You really are old fashioned. It’s not necessarily a bad thing, as long as you don’t make the mistake of thinking I can’t look after myself.”
Despite the ache in his chin, Steve couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, I would never do that.”
Wóbser was now alone in his booth, his companions either dismissed by him or having decided that discretion was the better part of valor. He looked up at his two visitors, and gestured for them to take a seat.
“Mr. Rogers. Or do you prefer Captain America?”
“Steve is fine. You know who I am?”
Wóbser laughed. “Do I look blind? You are all over the television, and even if I hadn’t seen that, the example you made of Sergi would have made it clear you weren’t just someone in off the street. Don’t worry, part of my service is discretion, or I wouldn’t get any repeat customers. Your secrets are safe with me.”
He turned his smile to Steve’s companion. “And this must be Katherine. Very formidable indeed.”
Steve made a mental note. Wóbser liked the sound of his own voice, and he liked showing off his knowledge. It might just be an attempt to establish his bona fides, but Steve thought it more likely that he just liked impressing people. He’d dealt with Wóbser’s type before, many times, and that desire to impress could be used against him. Act suitably awed, and they would often be so gratified that they’d let more slip than they intended to.
“I guess you already know why we’re here, right?” Steve asked.
Wóbser shaped his hand into the shape of a gun and pointed it at Katherine.
“You want to know how much she is worth. And who is after her.”
“That’s right. Maybe you do know everything that’s worth knowing in this city.”
“What’s in it for me, though? That’s the question here.”
“I’d been told that you’ve already been paid for this information,” Rogers said. “Our mutual friend would be very displeased if she heard you’d tried to renege on that deal—and you really don’t want to make her unhappy. Trust me on that.”
“Perhaps she should have warned me exactly how much interest there is in the girl, and the players involved. The information she wanted is worth twice what I’ve been paid—and I can’t spend it if I am dead.”
“I’d owe you a favor. How does that sound?”
“A favor from Captain America,” Wóbser said musingly. “That’s a valuable commodity right there.”
“You know the sort of things you can ask of me, and what I won’t do. No breaking the law, no hurting innocent people. The obvious. But if you ever need help, I will do whatever I can for you.”
“And how do I know that when I call on this favor you will come through for me? Maybe you’ll forget what you promised.”
Steve leaned forward, muscles flexing under his jacket as he cracked his knuckles. “Are you implying I would break my word?”
For the first time the smug look on Wóbser’s face slipped, and a bead of sweat appeared on his left temple.
“No, no! Of course not,” he said hurriedly. “Your word is good with me.”
Steve sat back and relaxed, smiling as Wóbser took out a monogrammed silk handkerchief and dabbed at his brow.
“Glad to hear it. So, what can you tell us?”
“Your friend here is almost as valuable as your word.” The smug look was back on Wóbser’s face as he looked Katherine up and down. “Two million dollars for her, alive and unhurt. As you can imagine, that’s attracted a lot of attention.”
Katherine had a slightly stunned look on her face.
“Two million. Wow.” She laughed, a little too loudly. “Well, it’s nice to be wanted, I guess.”
Steve looked around, wondering who was listening to the conversation. That was a lot of money; people were killed every day for a fraction of that amount.
“Of course,” Wóbser said. “It doesn’t seem quite as much given who she seems to have picked up as a bodyguard. That will discourage a lot of the minor players. It’s not just you that they’d be worried about, either. The company you keep can be . . . intimidating.”
“And who is financing such a generous sum, Wóbser?” Steve asked.
“Does the name Jonah Beckham ring a bell?”
Steve thought for a moment, searching for a phantom memory. The name rang a bell, but why? Then he remembered the attacker in the safe house, with the twin staves. He had known that voice, after all.
“Jonah Beckham, you said?” Steve asked. Wóbser nodded, and Steve went on. “When I last ran into him he was a S.H.I.E.L.D. operative. One of their best field agents, though I didn’t always approve of his methods. He was an ‘ends justify the means’ sort of guy. Why would he be trying to capture her?”
“Hey, I’m sitting right here,” Kath
erine said. “Maybe try asking me?”
Steve sighed, and turned to her.
“I’m sorry, Katherine. What do you think?”
“That’s better. Jonah Beckham hasn’t worked at S.H.I.E.L.D. for almost a year now. He got a transfer to another agency.” She thought for a moment. “I don’t think anyone ever said which one. But the way people were talking, it was a move up for him.”
“He could be working for anyone.” Steve stopped when he saw how attentively Wóbser was listening. “We can discuss this later.”
He turned back to Wóbser.
“Anything else you can tell us?”
“There’s more than one person looking for your girl.”
“I’m not anyone’s girl.”
Wóbser shrugged. “Whatever. But there is some serious muscle. The kind of heavy hitters that might think two million is more than enough to tangle with the Star Spangled Hammer over here. Sergi is minor league in comparison.”
“Star Spangled Hammer?” Katherine snickered. “Ha, good one.”
“Can you give me any names?” Steve asked, ignoring her. “It would help if I knew who I might be dealing with.”
“Sorry, I can’t. And before you say it, I am not holding out more for more favors,” Wóbser said. “Some of those people, I don’t know whether even you could protect me if word got out. Anyway, I have a reputation to protect, too.”
Steve suspected that it was more the former concern than the latter that weighed heavier on Wóbser’s mind, but he refrained from saying so. Everyone had their pride, after all.
He stood up and pulled out Katherine’s chair as she got to her feet.
“Thank you for your help, Wóbser. I won’t forget it.”
The outside air was a welcome relief after the closed-in atmosphere of the bar, and Steve breathed in a chest full of clean, fresh air. He felt vaguely unclean, and he had a sudden urge to have a long, hot shower and scrub himself with soap.
Marvel's Captain America: Sub Rosa Page 7