Lost + Found [Bucky Barnes] ✓

Chapter 3

FOR REASONS UNKNOWN, I turn on the television. Maybe part of me is expecting to see my picture flash up on the flat screen, along with a warrant for my arrest, or - at the very least - a report on the two dead men found in the alley not far from my apartment building. So far, no such luck.

I can't tell if I'm relieved or not.

Stripping out of my clothes, I turn on the shower and stare at my reflection in the mirror. There's a thin red line on my neck from the knife that pricked me with a bit of crusted blood on it, but I can hardly see any change in my appearance other than my swollen red eyes. Twisting around, I try to check my back for bruises after the man slammed me against the brick wall. It's tender to the touch, but no discoloration has appeared on my caramel skin. Yet.

While I might be fine on the outside, inside I feel like I'm slowly suffocating.

I head back into my bedroom to snag a towel from my closet, thankful for the privacy of my master suite, and run my hand through my knotted and rain-soaked extensions. Normally I'd tuck my long hair into a shower cap to protect the weave, but I really don't care at this point. Glancing at the television as I pass, a wave of recognition moves through me and I freeze.

The face in the blurry photo on the screen is hard to make out, but I'd recognize those piercing blue eyes anywhere. It's him.

<><><><><> Flashback <><><><><>

"I don't know why you insist on getting your coffee from Dunkin' Donuts," I tell Mara as we exit the coffee shop. I carefully sip at my black coffee sweetened with single packet of Splenda, holding the door open for her while she juggles her wallet, iced latte, and chocolate cake donut. There's already a bite missing from it, and I can't help but laugh. "Just admit it. You're addicted to those donuts."

Mara shakes her head, "I am not! I just happen to love the combination of coffee and donut. Otherwise, what's the point? Besides, I'm a journalist. We thrive off caffeine and junk food. It's the fuel to my last-minute late night writing sessions."

"It's the afternoon," I point out.

"I know," Mara quips. "I'm fueling up early for tonight."

We turn right down 23rd Street toward Virginia Avenue, heading back to the GW Hachet office where Mara is going to be spending her afternoon. We're both in our second year of grad school at George Washington University, where I'm on track to get my doctorate in Physical Therapy and Mara's getting her Masters in New Media Photojournalism.

The sound of an explosion ahead causes me to jerk my head up, and I drop my coffee in shock as I watch a bus collide with a service truck and go tumbling into traffic. Chaos erupts around us, the sounds of screaming and distant gunfire from the bridge filling my ears. People begin running past us, but Mara's journalistic sensibilities kick in and she drops her coffee and donut into a nearby trashcan while sprinting toward the madness.

"Mara, wait!" I shout after her, pulling out my phone to dial 9-1-1 as I run after her into the throng of fleeing civilians. I'm not a medical doctor, but I know enough about first aid to know that I can help anyone injured in the bus.

A police car speeding toward the accident explodes, the fireball consuming the officer inside, and I barely resist screaming into the phone. I tell the operator my location along with as many details as I can gather about what's going on before I see him.

His long brown hair hangs past his chin, and he wears a black muzzle over the lower half of his face. With only his eyes exposed, I freeze where I stand and watch him lift the assault rifle equipped with a grenade launcher over his shoulder. He's dressed in solid black leather, but I hardly notice as I can't peel my eyes away from his left arm - his metal left arm. As someone who studies mobility, I notice how it's shaped to mirror the muscles and movement of his other arm before registering the look on his face. He kneels down next to a van, rolling something underneath, before standing straight and taking aim at a car parked less than a block from where I am.