Chapter 4
Score and so ago
It had started as a lark, Howard had thought that a bogeyman was just an excuse for poor planning, for equipment failure and for bad luck. He hadn't considered that the Winter Soldier could be real.
Now, not only was there evidence, but that evidence pointed to not a Russian, not some Red Patriot. American. The Winter Soldier was an American. Brainwashed. That too was supposed to be an exaggeration. Tell it to Patty Hearst. Charles Manson had nothing on this.
Howard now knew he should have killed Zola. Paperclip may have made sense for the rocket scientists, but Zola knew he'd trampled lines and would edge around any limitation.
He should have looked for James Barnes. The Alps were simple compared to the Arctic Sea. He should have considered what Zola had been testing.
The Soviets had found Barnes. Battered, bloodied. Alive. They hadn't known about the train. They didn't know here was Captain America's right hand. They'd returned him, he'd been received, and then...
Howard looked at Maria, broken and slumped over the steering wheel. Howard wondered if he twitched he'd be put out of his misery. Not that he deserved mercy, he'd never given it. He should have questioned more, cared more. He should have made retrieving Barnes a priority.