The flight over to San Francisco is quick and easy. I just take a standard commercial flight, using my fake ID again. Electing not to draw attention with a private jet or helicopter seems like a good idea. Although, I forgot that guns aren't allowed through airports, so I had to ditch mine.
It's fine. It just means no long-range attacks. I'll have to use my bare hands, I guess. Seems more cruel to the person on the receiving end, but hey—blame TSA.
When I land, I beeline it to the address Echo sends me. I have no time to waste; the sooner I get this information, the sooner I can get back to my family.
Shit. Did I just call Bucky family?
Well, I guess he is. Kind of.
I think the technical term nowadays is baby daddy, but does that make people family? I mean, is he just my baby daddy?
I'd rather not think about this until I'm back with him and just leave it to him to answer.
Soon enough, I arrive at the address—a three-story townhouse, older style. Not quite as old as my ass, but still considered vintage.
I slip on a mask concealing the bottom half of my face and peek around the perimeter, noting the security and camera system. All high-end and newer. No doubt because of his girlfriend, Hope, or the super suit hidden somewhere in the house. I listen carefully for voices, noting the silence inside.
As I make my way to the backyard, I avoid and hop over several mounded anthills. No surprise there. I did some research and found out a lot about his predecessor, who has a serious obsession with ants and can control them, to my understanding. Which means it's not a good idea to step on the little fuckers—they're so small they could swarm me before I even realize it.
The house is completely empty from the look of it, but the cars are still in the driveway. A walk, maybe? Well, it doesn't hurt to get a leg up and startle the other party by having them return to find me here.
I take a look at the back lock and notice the seriously crazy advanced locking system—not something my little old lock-picking kit can handle. No surprise, considering his burglary history and the current security company he owns. But in times like this, brute strength never hurts.
I doubt someone who's on a handful of watchlists and doesn't like cops has his alarm system routed to them. It's probably set to his own phone, which is fine. Then I won't have to wait long for him.
I yank the doorknob and lock off, discarding them over my shoulder as I enter. The dark hardwood creaks beneath my black boots as I make my way into the kitchen area. The place is clean—dishes washed, everything in its place.
But there's a teacup on the dining room table. I rest my hand over it; the liquid has gone cold. Across the table, a few ants scurry, out of formation, as if their queen has given no orders and they're lost.
I move through the house, making no effort to hide from the cameras set throughout. Still, out of habit, I keep my steps light and avoid as many creaks as I can. The wood on the stairs sags under me. I find several bedrooms, two offices, and an attic filled with boxes of security equipment—no doubt for his work.
Still no signs of people, I make my way down to the basement. The first thing I notice is the lack of items, clutter, or dust—as if it's recently been cleaned out. But when I stalk around closer, I notice a device sitting in the center of the floor, and metal and wires remaining on the wall that weren't removed, but rather ripped away.
Either someone or something tore everything up and out of here.
I glance down at the device, debating touching it, but a base survival instinct I haven't felt in a while kicks in. Reminding me of Lang and his predecessor's work, I have no desire to be shrunk down to an ant and stuck that way, forever being stepped on by others.
I return upstairs and head to the second floor. I could just sit and wait for his return—or better yet, find what I need.
One study is clearly more professional than the other, more focused on business. It must be for his girlfriend, Hope, and her work with her company. The other has more books strewn about, the subjects leaning heavily toward the sciences. A title catches my eye on one of the shelves: The Road to Reality. I pull the book and note the cracked spine, tabs throughout—clearly thoroughly read.
Huh. Maybe Mira and him should talk.
I glance over to a small table in the corner, square and sad compared to the grand wooden desk in the other study. His laptop sits on top. Lucky for me, I brought Echo's flash drive just in case. I open the laptop and slip the drive in, sending off a message to her to pull what she can.
She gets straight to work. The screen that once requested a password is now blue, endless lines of numbers and code running across it at such a staggering pace I can't keep up. Not that I would try.
I continue searching. Most of what I find is just books, a few notepads with doodles of designs—likely for his suit by the looks of it—and other scattered science junk.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch something wedged under the bottom of his bookshelf. I pull it out to find another notebook. This one has drawings too, but of gems. I flip through it, noting the terrible handwriting, but despite that, I understand enough to know this is what I need.
It talks about each stone. Every page gives a rough sketch with notes beside it, every stone labeled—six of them. I skip ahead to find that after the notes on the gems, there's a page labeled TIME HEIST in bold letters. The section that follows details the plan: date after date of where the stones were, mixed with talk of Pym particles I don't understand, nor care to.
For someone so smart, he sure is dumb. Why wouldn't he have this locked away or something? Then again, they're destroyed, so I guess no one really cares if others go looking. No one can get to them, and no one other than Tony Stark could fund or figure out how to pull another time heist.
I tuck the notebook into my backpack, pull the drive from his laptop, tell Echo to stop her search, and head back downstairs. Still no one's home.
Well, easy enough, I guess. Bucky will be happy—I didn't hurt him or even see him. Although Lang will realize someone's been here when he sees his back door. Sorry, Lang.
With that, I get the hell out of there and head to the airport. Mission complete. Faster and easier than my last few have been—but I won't complain.