//------------------------------// // Chapter 27 - The Devil // Story: This War of Ours // by JDPrime22 //------------------------------// Berlin, Germany Joint Counter Terrorist Centre 5:30 p.m. Rushing up the stairs with only one set goal in mind, Steve Rogers rammed his shoulder into the door. He stepped out into the sunlight, and upon the landing pad there was Bucky, ready to make his escape in the lone helicopter resting in the middle of the pad. The thunderous whipping of the helicopter’s blades grew even louder, the chopper slowly rising off the rooftop. Eyes widening, Steve rushed up the set of stairs to the landing pad, and just before the helicopter could get any higher, jumped and gripped the landing skids with both hands. To his wild surprise, Barnes felt the helicopter lean left, his eyes darting downwards to see the man holding onto his only means of escape. Distraught, trying desperately to hold on, Steve felt his feet scrape the landing pad, continuously skidding forward. Towards the edge. Just before the he could have fallen, Steve let one arm free, the other still managing to hold on. With his free arm, he grabbed the nearest bar on the landing pad, ensuring that as long as he held on, the helicopter—and Bucky—weren’t going anywhere. And Barnes, still watching in the pilot’s seat, could see as he managed to pull the chopper slowly but surely back to the pad. Somehow, someway, he managed to do it. He had enough. Yanking on the stick, Barnes tilted the chopper in hopes to crush the man beneath its gargantuan weight. Steve, however, had already reacted, rolling forward on the pad as the chopper crashed and spun on the cement. Wary of the spinning blades, they tore through the cemented ground, Steve trapped within their deadly storm. The tail came straight for him, but Steve ducked, lying flat on his chest as the helicopter finally came to a screeching rest. He pressed his palms into the cement, breathing cautiously, eyes darting in every direction. It was all quiet, dust from the crash slowly settling around him. With that, Steve turned his attention to the chopper, more specifically the pilot’s seat, and watched as the glass shattered and Bucky’s fist came flying out, his metallic fingers wrapping around Steve’s throat. As if it couldn’t get any worse, the helicopter began to move. Not forward, but back. Steve pressed his palms into the chopper’s exterior, pushing back, trying to hold the massive machine still. Even with his enhanced strength, there was no possible way he could’ve stopped it. Bucky’s rock-hard glare continued to hold as did his grip around his throat. And even as the chopper fell, he still held on. But when it hit water, so did Bucky’s forehead with the glass, and he let go. The remains of the helicopter slowly sunk down into the river, only bubbles emerging from its descent. People from within the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre stepped outside and gazed into the river, watching as the remains of the helicopter sunk deep within the darkness. They never saw Steve Rogers finally ascend farther down the river. Nor did they see the rainbow trail soaring overhead. With Bucky’s unconscious form in his grasp, Steve swam to shore, wary of the police helicopters flying overhead, observing the crash site. Instead, he eyed the rainbow trail and waved to it. Berlin, Germany Rooftops 5:45 p.m. Matt was lucky the buildings were so close together. If they hadn’t been, there was no possible way he was going to keep up with the speeding van. Miraculously, though, he did, hopping from building to building, keeping his eyes to the streets and watching the van make right and left turns, listening for what the man inside whispered to himself. Soon enough, the van eventually slowed down, appearing just as average as any other vehicle in Berlin. Thank God. It molded in with the traffic jam, the cars quickly moving on as the traffic lights soon came back online. And just like that, the van followed the crowd, stopping on red lights, moving on green lights, appearing as average as any other vehicle. It came to another red light. The van stopped. Perfect. Matt didn’t wait by the ledge to catch his breath after running for several minutes straight. He didn’t stop when the end of the building came quickly. He jumped. He jumped right over the edge and landed on the roof of the van. He rolled to cushion his landing, eventually finding ground near the front roof. Within the van, Zemo jumped at the sudden crash from above. Peering into his rear-view mirror, he could see a man in red armor perched on the hood of his vehicle. He saw the twin horns, the red eyes. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. He was early. Nonetheless, Zemo rammed on the gas pedal. The light hadn’t even turned green, but he managed to fine a quick opening. The Devil fell onto his back as the van flew forward, but he managed to hold on. Cars swerved out of control as the large van broke through the moving traffic, several horns blaring, people screaming and driving out of the way of the massive vehicle. As he tore down the road, Zemo shot his eyes back to the rear-view. He was still there. Zemo cursed and pulled out his pistol from the glove compartment. Aiming straight up, Zemo unloaded an entire magazine into the roof, hoping just one of the bullets would be gracious enough to crack through the Devil’s mask. Matt fell back once more as the driver continued to fire away, bullets flying through the roof and straight upwards. The ear-piercing sounds of the gun shots spread throughout the street and onwards, frightened civilians fleeing the scene, some staying to witness the Devil riding the speeding white van. Matt stared at them, realizing the severity of the situation. He had to stop the vehicle before someone got hurt, or worse. Once the bullets stopped flying, Matt, slowly crawled on his belly forward, closer and closer to the driver’s seat. He could see the man in the rear-view mirror, his skin on fire, his eyes two orbs of orange and cinder. They turned to him. He brought up his pistol once more. Matt was ready this time. He reached down and gripped the steering wheel, yanking it hard in his direction. A few shots went off, followed by the terrible screech of tires against cement, and then the world spun out of control. Matt dove forward as the van took a twisted left turn too far, eventually rolling on its side. Matt rolled just the same, but on the sidewalk and coming to quick stop. He stared onwards, watched as the van rolled, hit a parked car, and finally came a much-needed halt. The vehicle lay upside-down, the tires continuing to spin despite the van’s frozen position in the center of the street. Most civilians scattered, others slowly began to circle the van, their curiosity getting the best of them. And from where he lay, Matt could see the driver crawl out from the driver’s seat, right over the shards of glass where the window once was, and stood up. Blood coated his forehead, dribbling down to stain his ruined dress shirt. As he emerged into the open, his eyes of fire landed once more on the Devil, a ferocious snarl building at the bottom of his throat. But he never finished. He noticed the growing crowd, the rising sirens. Just as Matt stood up, the man was gone, rushing into the crowd and vanishing. He didn’t say a word, but Matt had his heartbeat. With a slight limp, Matt ran forward in an attempt to chase him down. But he stopped. Just by the van’s driver’s seat. Looking down, ignoring the crowd questioning his presence, Matt bent down and peered inside the vehicle. Glass shards filled the inside the vehicle. Small bullets holes pockmarked the roof of the vehicle pressed firmly into the cement, but no pistol in sight. All that sat in the vehicle was a torn, little red book. Its silver star was surrounded in flames from Matt’s point of view. Curiously enough, Matt reached in and pluck the book from the roof of the vehicle. He stood back up, gently flipped through the book's pages, and stopped. He recognized the words, the Russian he once previously heard back at the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre, spoken by the man that had fled moments ago. He couldn’t read Russian. But he had a computer. Karen did. The sirens grew stronger, the crowd grew larger, some shouted at him. They screamed as he slipped between men and women, dove into the nearest alley and vanished within the shadows.