a lion among wolves, bucky barnes (hiatus)

six.

WASHINGTON D.C.
2014

"WHEN Sitwell and Stern walk out of there," June said, voice low and careful, passing Sam a scrap of paper, "call this number."

The two sat casually at a small table outside the Occidental Grill where the S.H.I.E.L.D. executive and the Senator were finishing up a business lunch. The afternoon was pleasantly warm, a soft breeze sifting through trees, ruffling June's hair. She sipped idly on an iced tea, the condensation sliding down the glass, slipping over her fingers as she relished in the comforting bustle of busy people hurrying around her, enjoying the domestic thrill of the crowded avenue.

"I tampered with your phone," she continued, "so when you contact Sitwell you'll come up as Pierce, and it guarantees he'll answer." There was quiet pride in her voice, and upon noticing her assuredness, Sam considered her fondly.

"You know," he mused. "I like you, Ivanski. You're resourceful."

With a pleased smile, June tilted her drink to him and winked as she lowered a pair of dark sunglasses over her watchful eyes. Her gaze flitted to the chiseled entrance of the restaurant, just as a dozen suit-clad men flooded from inside and surrounded the approach in a synchronized manner, enclosing within their circle a pair of men squinting against the bright sun, conversing choppily. June immediately singled out the taller of the two, his bald head sticking out like a sore thumb.

"That's him," she hissed. "Is Steve ready?"

"I'm in position," his voice drifted from the earpiece June wore. "Ready whenever you are."

June watched Senator Stern break away from Sitwell, and she nodded towards Sam. "Go on."

Sam punched in the number June had provided and brought the phone to his ear, concealed gaze fixated fervently on the S.H.I.E.L.D. official who stood across the street. A few tense moments passed as the two listened to the dial tone drawl, both glaring fiercely upon Sitwell as he tentatively answered their call, noticeably paling as he realized who he believed it was.

"Yes, sir?" Sitwell answered, pushing boldness into his voice.

"Agent Sitwell," Sam began slowly, sardonically so, "how was lunch? I hear the crab cakes here are delicious."

"Who is this?" Sitwell's mouth drew into a thin line, caution rising in his voice.

"The good-looking duo in the sunglasses, your ten o' clock."

Stupidly, Sitwell turned away from June and Sam, in the opposite direction. "Your other ten o' clock," Sam corrected him promptly.

Sitwell did as told, and this time his narrowed eyes found the two renegades, slitting further as Sam lifted his own drink in greeting and June waved pleasantly.

"What do you want?" The agent asked shortly, alarm hidden in his tone.

"You're gonna go around the corner, to your right. There's a gray car, two spaces down. We're gonna take a ride."

"And why would I do that?" The forbearance was thick in his voice.

"Because that tie looks really expensive," Sam responded coolly, without a falter in his words. "And I'd hate to mess it up."

As he spoke, June pushed a piece of her dark hair behind one ear. It was an idle, casual and almost habitual gesture, yet in that moment it held great meaning: it was Steve's signal. For he was hidden atop a building far from the oblivious eyes of those who shuffled through the streets, aiming a laser pointer at Sitwell's chest. For lack of a better option, considering they had no sniper rifle conveniently on-hand, the three had agreed it was the most reliable way to go—after all, Sitwell wouldn't know he was not being threatened with a bullet to the heart.