Chapter 9
Steve didn't fall for the dare. And I respect him for that.
Duty turned out to be higher than emotions. After all, he is actually a military man. And that is first and foremost duty and the obligation to obey orders. And the order was clear—don't you dare.
But he didn't throw himself at me anymore either. I allowed the medical staff to bandage Phillips's wound: I shot carefully, into the soft tissues, trying not to hit major blood vessels and nerves—the rage was still almost under control. If it had been otherwise, the bullet would have gone straight into his forehead. And even more likely, a mawashi geri would have shattered the head of the insolent fool who woke the Beast into tiny splatters (things like that have happened to me before).
And Phillips, as I understood it, took my words about "getting offended and slaughtering" quite seriously, which is very correct in his position. Honestly, I didn't expect such quick-wittedness from him. Apparently, I underestimated the stimulating ability of a bullet to a limb.
With the help of two burly guys, he escorted me to the official car. He got in it with me. We drove to my apartment, I quickly threw my things into a bag and went downstairs, back into the car.
In it, he drove me to the port.
"Victor," he broke the silence that had hung the whole time. "I don't want you to consider us enemies. I can't answer for the whole government, but the Strategic Scientific Reserve is doing everything it can to make this war end sooner. 'Rebirth' was one of those attempts."
I silently nodded to show that I understood him. Then I took my bag and went to passport control. I had nothing more to talk about with him. And in general, I have no interests in America for the next thirty years.
Since I couldn't cope with my nature and rage, then let it serve for the good... Although, what is "good"?
* * *
"And you're just going to let him go like that?" the driver of the car turned to Colonel Phillips. It turned out to be Peggy Carter disguised in a man's suit.
"Yes. I'll just let him go," the colonel answered somewhat sharply.
"But, sir! He knows so much now! He might even have the formula..."
"Agent!" he cut her off. "I am not obliged to report to you!"
"Sorry, sir," Carter deflated. An awkward silence hung in the air. Phillips moved his injured leg with his hands and winced.
"Our service made inquiries about him," he broke the prolonged pause.
"Sir?" Carter feigned attention.
"It took a lot of time. And, you could say, we got lucky. One of the agents stumbled upon a similar name in the archives. Very old archives."
"How old?" Carter frowned.
"From the time of the War of Independence, Agent."
"A similar name?"
"Analysts are inclined to believe that it's not just that," the colonel sighed. "They were very interested in him back then, so there were many documents. Including a portrait and a verbal description."
"What was in those documents?"
"That a certain Victor Creed, a corporal in the Continental Army of the USA, was awarded the 'Badge of Military Merit', better known as the 'Purple Heart'. The award was presented personally by George Washington. And he attracted the attention of the special service by tearing enemies apart with his bare hands on the battlefield. And literally: into a left and right half. Or upper and lower, however it turned out. And he bit through throats, also literally—with his teeth. Moreover, he bit through the spine. What interested the service the most was something else—even a musket volley from a full square point-blank didn't stop him. Didn't even slow him down. This corporal could track down enemies fleeing the battlefield, as well as enemy scouts, even underground. If he picked up someone's trail, you could order a requiem in advance. Such a fun guy."
"But that was a hundred and sixty years ago. What does it have to do with this Victor Creed?" Carter was surprised. "A descendant?"
"I think everything is much worse, Agent. I think it is the exact same Victor Creed. That very one."
"But how?"
"Well, think about it, if wounds heal on him, could he not age?"
"Theoretically... And what is known about the fate of that Creed?"
"The war ended. He wandered around taverns for a couple of weeks and sailed somewhere to Asia. You understand, times were turbulent, they didn't send people after him... The trail was lost somewhere in Siam. And the current Creed appeared in Europe in 1913. He entered the Sorbonne, then the Technical University of Munich, where he met Abraham Erskine and lived with him in the same dorm room. Then Oxford. From there, without finishing his studies, he rushed to Germany and then to us. If we assume that at the time of his appearance in Europe he was about twenty years old, how old is he now?"
"Forty-nine."
"Does he look fifty?"
"No. Twenty-two to twenty-five maximum."
"Let me remind you, there was a portrait of that Creed in the papers. And he differs from this Creed only in his hairstyle. Knowing all this, tell me, Agent: does America need such an enemy? And specifically you and me? After all, he won't fight a whole country, but specifically with those who angered him..."
"I understand, sir."
"Better tell me, how are you feeling? Aren't the powers of a super soldier awakening?"
"Why would they?" Carter was surprised.
"Our accurate friend," the colonel adjusted his leg again, wincing once more, "injected you with the last dose of the serum, which he somehow inexplicably had."
"Those marks..."
"Exactly. Keep in mind, Creed told our Stevie to train constantly in order to avoid losing shape. I think you, Agent, should also listen to his recommendation."
"I understand, sir."
"Let's go to the base. We still have to deal with Rogers now..."
* * *