Chapter 11
One by one, the guests all left, and Sam was alone in the apartment. Bucky and Natasha still weren’t back yet. They were probably fine. Just out “canoodling,” as Scott put it. Still, Sam had a slight sense of unease, which he tried to suppress. After all, he’d been hoping Nat and Bucky would be able to connect. And nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary. At least—not until the lights went out.
Sam’s background had trained him to approach every surprise with wariness. Situational awareness, it was called—a fancy way of saying paranoia.
When the lights went out, Sam instantly reached for his belt, where his gun would normally sit in its holster. Shit. He wasn’t wearing a gun. Alright. Well, maybe reaching for a gun was not exactly a proportionate reaction to a blackout. He peered out the window, trying to assess the situation. He noted that the lights were still on in the building across the street. He couldn’t hear the elevators running, and wondered briefly whether the blackout was just in his apartment or whether the whole building was dark.
“Hello Samuel,” said a voice, and Sam jumped up, once again reaching for his gun, once again seeing it was not there. “Apologies for the interruption, but I fear that your entire building is under surveillance - and I needed to make sure we were not interrupted.” He flicked on a cigarette lighter. The ambient light from the street, along with the light from the flame, was enough for Sam to see who it was.
Zemo.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” said Sam. “What the hell are you doing?”
Zemo ignored the question. “Nice apartment. A little small. A little…shabby. But comfortable, I’m sure.”
Sam scowled in response. “I asked you a question, Zemo. What are you doing in my home?”
“I know you and I are not the best of friends, Sam. But we are in the same business, are we not?”
“And what business is that?”
“The ‘not dying’ business,” said Zemo.
“Funny, seems like every time you come around, everyone’s chances of dying go up tenfold. You know. All the bombs and stuff. And you’re a wanted fugitive. The feds could storm through that door at any moment.”
Zemo shrugged, as if this didn’t matter to him in the slightest. “The U.S. government doesn’t care about me. They have more pressing matters to attend to. Haven’t you heard, Samuel? The war on terror is back and better than ever.”
“And who’s the terrorist exactly?” Sam shot back. This guy really pissed him off. “The only terrorist I know is you.”
“I like to think of myself as more of a free thinker.”
“Yeah, that’s what all terrorists say,” said Sam.
“Hear me out,” said Zemo. “Five minutes of your time. And if you don’t like what I have to say, I’ll leave and you can call the police, or the Avengers, or whoever. But first…” Zemo shot him a rakish grin. “How about a drink?”