Honesty ♧ Bucky Barnes

Industrial Espionage (part one)

"Please, I can give you money? I'm a rich man, I have money."

The Soldier regarded the crumpled figure on the ground with distaste. He was around forty, his greying hair combed back sharply behind his ears. The middle-aged flab caused by the lifestyle of the rich hung heavily around his middle. The shirt he was wearing had been white. Now the colour was closer to red. The Soldier took another step forwards.

"Not money?" The man's voice got more panicked, squeaking slightly, "Okay, how about women? You like women?"

The Soldier stopped walking and the man's eyes lit up. He pushed himself into a sitting position, groaning slightly as he manoeuvred himself around the three new broken ribs that he had been given only minutes earlier. His gleaming eyes sparkled in his fat face.

"Women? I run an operation, I can give you the best women from all around the world. India? China? Japan? Whatever you want."

The Soldier pulled his gun from his belt, relishing at the familiar weight of the cold metal in his hand and the man let out a small cry from the back of his throat.

"Or men? I can give you men if that's what you prefer? There's a boy who's just turned 19, Mongolian. I'll give him to you for free if you let me go."

The Soldier ignored the man's babbling, raising the gun up to point directly between his eyes. His finger tightened on the trigger. The man brought his hands up as if that would possibly stop the velocity of a travelling bullet. He peeked out from behind his fingers. The Soldier nearly snorted to himself. Pathetic.

"Or even something younger?"

The Soldier stopped in his tracks and he saw the old man smile, take a breath. He thought he was safe.

"She's 11. My boys picked her up somewhere off the coast of Vietnam. I can give her to you if you leave. I'll even throw in a few of her friends."

The Soldier raised his gun and pulled the trigger, the bullet shooting through the soft skin of the man's stomach, straight through his kidney. He let out a strangled groan and the Soldier turned on his heel and walked away, leaving the man to bleed out on the floor. His mission was to kill Michael Holton. Granted, a bullet straight through his skull would have done the job perfectly, but there was something in the Soldier that had wanted the man to suffer before he died.

Some people deserved it.

The Soldier sat up like a shot, breathing heavily. He looked around himself, his heart in his throat at the unfamiliar surroundings. He whipped his head from side to side, hair flying, his hand automatically reaching to his belt where a knife resided. He didn't recognise the room, even in the darkness. Where the hell was he? It was then that he felt a small pressure on his left foot, causing him to extend it completely on impulse, sending a small furry lump flying through the air. It emitted a loud screech and landed on the counter on all fours, before turning around to give the Soldier a dirty look and padding away. A cat? He just drop-kicked a cat?

He looked down and noticed that he was sat on a small couch, dotted with pictures of gaudy roses.

Of course, he was in Jefferson's house. He took a deep breath inwards and glanced towards her bedroom door, which was shut tight. He had asked her last night to lock it, he still wasn't in a situation where he could trust himself. He reached down beside the bed and pulled out his backpack, unzipping it and lifting out a small notebook. He flicked through it to the first clean page and, removing a pen from the front pocket of the bag, jotted down the name 'Michael Holton'. The name didn't ring a bell, but the Soldier was certain that the dream was a memory. A vivid one. He ran his hand through his hair and stood up, pouring himself a glass of water and sipping on it pensively.