Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I.

[1997 – SHIELD Facility, New York]

Name: Henryk Rybinski
Document Citizenship: Poland
Date of Birth: October 19, 1948
Place of Birth: Warsaw, Poland
Location: Pruszków, Poland
Affiliation: Pruszków Mafia
Title: Captain
Status: Active Target
Race: Caucasian
Height: 6'4
Weight: 220 lbs
Gender: Male
Hair: Brown
Eyes: Blue
Language: Polish, Russian
Identifiable Markings: Multiple Tattoos – star on left side of neck, multiple skulls with snake through eyes on right shoulder, "śmierć wszystkim" across upper chest (meaning: "death to all")
Family: Anjelika Rybinski (nee Lewinski), wife DECEASED 1991-01-25; Daria Rybinski, daughter ALIVE b. 1989-06-13
Education: BS Chemistry, University of Warsaw; Warsaw, Poland
Crimes: Murder, Attempted Murder, Assault and Battery, Drug Trafficking, Extortion, Weapons Trafficking, Kidnapping, Prostitution
Training: Highly skilled with guns, knives, explosives; extremely intelligent; hand-to-hand combat and martial arts training

Phil read the packet of information three times before he raised his head. He clasped his hands and rested them atop the folder. For the last nine years, he'd been a devoted SHIELD agent, and for six years prior to that, including excessive and necessary training, he'd been a member of the CIA.

"Extraction, sir?" he asked.

Fury gave a short nod. "You'll be leading a team of eight agents."

"Eight, sir?" His brow furrowed minutely. "I was under the impression we were infiltrating Rybinski's home."

"You are. Rybinski's house is a veritable fortress, or so he likes to think." Picking up a remote, he aimed it at a screen to his left, clicking through the pictures taken of the two-story house, surrounded by a brick wall, the top of which had wrought iron arrows to ward off anyone still willing to attempt it. "There are thirteen guards; they rotate out every ten hours. Rybinski spends most of his time out of house, but he returns each night at exactly 9pm."

"His daughter?" Phil asked.

"Daria, eight years old, home schooled. Never leaves the house. Hasn't been seen since her mother was found dead in '91. Two bullets to the head."

"Rybinski?"

"We assume so."

Phil nodded shortly. "If the daughter hasn't been seen, how sure are we that she's there?"

Fury zoomed in on a picture then and it was clear to see a collection of children's arm-floaties on the ground near the pool. "It's not definitive. But we do assume that the girl is alive."

He stared a moment longer before asking, "And the reason for extraction?"

"Besides the fact that Rybinski is a captain in the local mafia, we've got a few UC's whispering back to us that Rybinski is being contacted personally about a number of hits on American dignitaries set to visit Warsaw next month. We want to know who's hiring him and why. On paper, it's cut and dry. We both know that in the field, things can get more than a little hairy. Which is why I chose you to head this op. You'll pick your own team, brief them on the way in. We can't afford to waste any more time on this. You'll be flown into Pruszków tomorrow, wheels up at 0500. You'll have three days to get the lay of the land before you pull the trigger."

"Speaking of…" He tapped his fingers on the picture. "What happens if he doesn't come quietly?"

Fury snorted. "We both know he won't. It's your job to make sure he gets back here alive. What kind of shape he's in, I'm not too concerned, as long as he's coherent enough to answer our questions."

"Understood."

Fury stared at him a short moment and then said, simply, "Dismissed."

With a short nod, Phil stood from his chair, gathering the folder on Rybinski and the various print outs of Rybinski's house and the details gathered both by the undercover agents in the area and the surveillance team currently on the Pruszków mafia. He made his way through the halls of SHIELD with one thing on his mind; who. He needed to put together a team.

In the nine years he'd been at SHIELD, he'd earned a reputation for only choosing and training the best. He chalked it up in part to his time at the CIA, constantly being aware of those around him, their skills and their flaws, understanding where they fit and what he could use them for at any given time. He was an efficient agent, taking only what he needed, who would work for him to the best of their capacity, and discarding the rest. Some of them went on to other teams, others were ferried out to different departments within SHIELD. It wasn't ego for him to say that him either taking on or turning down someone from joining his team carried weight.

Returning to his quarters, he took a seat at his desk to look over the paperwork again. He needed to have the layout memorized; every hallway, every exit, every window. He wanted to know where each of the 13 guards would be standing at any time; what their habits were, how often they took bathroom breaks, what they ate, what their personal lives were like, everything. It would all matter. If even one had a weak bladder, that was an in. If one was always on his phone with a girlfriend, that made him distracted. There were always ways. Human behaviour allowed for flaws, and flaws allowed for opportunities. While he went over a general idea of how he wanted to move in, he started to put together his team in his head.

Martinez and Singh – both women were his best explosives experts and he had a feeling they'd be blowing something up at some point.
Carlisle – he was quick, silent, made to be an assassin but better on a team.
Okada – he was his go-to for emergency exit strategies.
The Hoppers – a brother/sister team of munitions experts.
Green – she'd butt heads with Carlisle, but she was stealthy; he might put her on getting the girl out.
And, finally, May, the best agent in SHIELD and the only one he trusted to always get the job done.

Team decided, he put a call in to have them informed of the 0500 exit; he'd debrief them on the flight and get started on plans when they landed.

Three days in Pruszków wasn't the worst time he'd spent somewhere. He had a list of the worst places he'd been in the world and Pruszków wasn't anywhere near the top. It was slowly being overrun by the crime ring that the mafia were at the centre of, but he'd seen worse places. Still, he'd be happy to return to base and put the mission behind them. For the most part, planning was easy. Martinez and Singh were prepared to blow up the outer wall if neither Carlisle nor Green could find them a quieter way in. They'd considered parachuting in, but the chances of being caught on descent and alerting the rest of the guards was too high. Okada had a vehicle for transport and had already planned out three different exit plans in the event that one or another didn't work. Phil would put money down that he had more than three but didn't want to sound skeptical of the team getting their part done. The Hoppers spent most of the last three days arguing, but they had enough guns and ammo on them to take the whole town if they got bored, and, chances were, if left to their own devices, they would. All the while, May was silent, listening, concluding, standing at his side as she considered the mission itself.

"Are you ready?" May wondered, approaching him in the living room of the dingy motel room they were holed up in. She stood with her feet braced, her arms crossed behind her back, ready to attack and strike if necessary, but appearing almost at ease. Phil wasn't sure she'd ever truly been relaxed; she was too aware, too much of a soldier, to ever let her guard down. It served her well; he'd seen her file, thicker than most and redacted to an almost shocking degree. He said almost because he was in the habit of redacting most of his life, so it really wasn't all that surprising to see an agent of her caliber had more than her fair share of secrets.

"As ready as any of us can be," he answered, leaning back. "How do you feel about this one? What's your gut feeling?"

She stared at him a long moment, expressionless if one didn't know her. He'd long ago learned to read what her face didn't say. "I don't think we'll lose anyone."

His mouth turned up very faintly. "Is that your polite way of saying you think this team is just competent enough to pull this off?"

"Just," she answered dryly.

He nodded thoughtfully. Generally, as much as he always tried to complete his mission, he couldn't call it a success unless all of his team came home with him. Injuries he could understand, but the deaths still hung on his shoulders. After all of his time in the field, he thought he'd get used to it, and some days the ache was dull, but there was nothing quite like knowing that somebody he picked died listening to his orders.

"You know, Rybinski will only live long enough to give Fury the answers he wants…"

"Is that so bad?" He stared at her curiously. "You've read his rapsheet. He's no saint."

"No, he isn't. But he does have a daughter." She searched his face for some kind of answer to that.

"A daughter who's motherless because of him."

"We suspect," she corrected.

"It's not usually like you to play devil's advocate for the target," he mused. "If there's something you have to say, say it."

Her lips pursed before she asked, "Have you considered what happens to the girl when this is over?"

Phil's gaze turned away for a moment. "I'm sure they'll find a relative; it might be distant, but she'll have a family."

"And if they can't?" May raised an eyebrow. "There are two options; she'll be put with the equivalent of child services in Poland or she'll be brought to America and added to our system under a different name, until her past is wiped clean so completely that not even she remembers where she came from."

Phil stared up at her. "Not ideal," he agreed. "But there's nothing I can do about that. Even if Fury chooses to let Rybinski live, he'll be put away in prison for life. We may not be able to prove he killed his wife, but our intel is explicit in a number of other murders. At last count, at least twenty-three."

May nodded, short and simple. "I won't tell you how to run your op. I only want to remind you that there are other casualties here. The kind that have to live with the decisions we make."

"That sounds suspiciously like regret…" He eyed her curiously. "Is this about this mission or something else?"

Her mouth turned up faintly on one corner, but her eyes were anything but amused. "We all have decisions we regret. Especially in this field."

Phil could think of a number, and so he didn't bother arguing. But this, whatever this was, seemed to haunt May, and he felt like she was trying to warn him of something ahead of time. He'd learned a long time ago to trust her instincts.

The infiltration was quick and quiet. Green and Carlisle found a way in through a back gate; there was a small window of time just after shift change that left it unmonitored, but not for long. They snuck into the property silently, guns at the ready, and swiftly began moving toward the house. The team split apart then, moving along the outside to remove the guards from their watch.

Phil forged ahead and entered the house through the sliding glass door leading into the kitchen. It rolled loud enough to make the fine hairs on his arms raise in anticipation. May motioned for him to go ahead while her eyes scanned the interior for any enemies. It wasn't until they were both inside that they realized that not all of the previous thirteen guards had left the property, there were five more inside, and they reacted with gunfire. He and May split in opposite direction; he took cover behind the kitchen island while he could see May roll out of the way and behind a wall. She cast a look at him and then up and to the right, where he knew the stairs were located. With a nod, she moved out from the wall and started firing.

He moved as the attention turned toward her, running toward the stairs. When he looked back, May was engaged with two of the five guards; one lay dead while the other two were missing. His earwig transmitter blew up with noise; the shots had called the guards to attention before they could finish picking them off. Phil climbed the stairs two at a time. He was sure that the two remaining guards were making their way to Rybinski. The best option was his office; surveillance stated that a light was always on in the office between the hours of 9 and 11:30 pm, before he either turned in for the night or went downstairs to meet with various business partners, depending on the day. Rybinski had a schedule, and that was what would be his downfall.

As he banked around the corner, Phil considered the doors ahead of him. Behind him was a full bathroom, meaning there was a tub and enough space for someone to hide inside, if necessary. The door was open, however, meaning neither of the guards were likely hiding inside. Just beside it was the linen closet, too small and full of shelves; the odds were slim that anybody besides the daughter might be hiding inside. There were two more doors on the left side of the hall, both leading to bedrooms. On the right side was one door; the office. There were balconies connecting to the bedrooms but not the office, meaning that the chances of Rybinski escaping from the second floor were more likely to be via the bedrooms.

A crash below, followed by multiple gunshots, was soon explained via his earwig.

"Three more entered through the pool door. Coulson; expect incoming."

He nodded and moved down the hall. He had three options; (1) turn and engage the incoming threat; neutralize, (2) check the bedrooms to see if either have been compromised (ie. Rybinski has fled the scene), or (3) enter the office, hope to engage and neutralize Rybinski and at least two of his guards before the other three guards found him.

In the split-second it took him to decide, he ducked into the first bedroom door, back against the wall. The room was dark, lit with a faint blue glow from the moon filtering through the window. The door to the balcony was closed. His eyes quickly scanned the area. It was the daughter's room, though it barely resembled much of what he imagined a child would like. There were no posters on the walls, no picture frames to be seen, no color. From the moonlight spilling in through the open curtain, he could see that the bed, what little of it wasn't scrunched up, was tucked into too-tight corners, military-style. There was a pair of shoes by the foot of the bed, lined up perfectly straight, and a baseball cap hanging off the post. Small and ratty, the brim was beginning to peel.

It took him a second to realize that the unmade bed meant one thing; the daughter was up, and she was either in the bedroom or with her father. Chances were, her father grabbed her or his guards did it for him. Or was he putting too much stock on a father's love? He considered the likelihood that Rybinksi was a loving, doting father, and then measured the room he was standing in. For such an opulent house and for a man that made such a significant amount of money from his lucrative crime business, his daughter looked like she was barely given enough to survive off of. Bad sign. Which meant the child was probably—

He felt the brush of something against his leg in the same moment that he heard a tiny voice whisper, "Porusz się, a cię potnę." (Move and I'll cut you.)

His eyes darted down to find a mop of curly brown hair and big blue eyes staring up at him, hard and dangerous for a child so small.

He considered her before answering, just as softly, "Nie jestem tutaj, aby cię skrzywdzić." (I'm not here to hurt you.)

"Jesteś moim wrogiem. Tak?" (You are my enemy. Yes?)

"Nie." (No.)

Her eyes narrowed and she pressed the edge of her knife close enough to his femoral artery that he had reason to be concerned. "Kłamca," (Liar) she accused.

He could hear the guards climbing the stairs, arguing about what to do. He didn't have long and if they knew he was in here… All she would have to do was yell. Which meant she'd be in the line of fire, and he wasn't so sure that the guards or her father would care.

He raised his finger to press to his lips, telling her silently to be quiet.

She quirked an eyebrow back at him and then cast her eyes toward the door.

"Co z Darią?" (What about Daria?) one of the guards outside wondered.

"Zostaw ją tam. Ona nie jest częścią protokołu. Mamy Henryka. To wszystko." (Leave her here. She is not part of protocol. We get Henryk. That's all.)

"Kogo to obchodzi? Nie będzie jej brakowało." (Who cares? She will not be missed.)

Daria's lip curled then, something flashing in her eyes. She drew the knife back from Phil's leg and stood. He knew it the instant it crossed her face; he'd seen it when one of his team snapped, when they reacted instead of planned.

He barely caught her shoulder, but she'd already thrown the door open.

With a growl, she told them, "Nikt nie będzie tęsknił za wami." (Nobody will miss you). And then she struck. Leaping from Phil's grasp, she leapt forward, knife at the ready. Before the guard closest to her could turn, she landed on his back, wrapping an arm around his neck and squeezing, her knife pressed up behind his ear. The guard had only two choices; let her choke him into unconsciousness, or fight her off and have his throat slit.

Phil took in the scene quickly and disarmed the guard reaching for her, a hand burying in her long hair and pulling. He used the butt of the guard's gun and slammed it into the bridge of his nose. It shattered on impact, blood pouring down his mouth and chin. As he stumbled back, Phil struck against, this time to his temple. He fell sideways, hit the wall, and slid down, out cold.

Hearing a scream behind him, he turned to find Daria free one of her arms and reach for the third guard, scratching at his face, her nails scoring down his cheek as he pulled at her to get her off his partner, who was quickly losing consciousness, his face rapidly turning purple.

"Zdrajca! Ty jesteś wrogiem! Ty!" (Traitor! You are the enemy! You!)

"Zakryj oczy!" (Cover your eyes!) Phil ordered as he raised his gun, aimed, and fired two shots. Both hit the guard in the chest; he lurched back two steps before falling to the ground, dead.

At the same time, the man Daria was choking out collapsed, landing on top of her. She cried out, trapped between the body and the wall.

Phil paused then, longer than he should have, caught between his mission and a girl he barely knew. The guards were down and the office wasn't far behind him; this was the opportune time, his logical mind told him. Daria whimpered, though, and he moved toward her automatically. He made it two steps before May arrived, blood on her cheek that he was sure wasn't hers. She took in the scene quickly, glanced at the girl, and then rushed past him toward the door leading into the office. While May went for Rybinski, he bent to push the unconscious body off of Daria.

"Jesteś ranna?" (Are you hurt?) he asked, digging his hands underneath her and lifting her up. She was small; all arms and legs, and he was surprised by the strength she'd shown earlier, since it didn't appear she was capable of anywhere near that.

She stared up at him, her brow furrowed, mouth set in a frown of confusion. "Moja stopa…" (My foot) she said quietly, eyeing him uncertainly, almost seeming skittish, which, given the circumstances and all that he'd seen her do, didn't quite compute for him.

Footsteps climbing the stairs drew his attention and he raised his gun, pivoting so he was covering her body from attack.

But Agent Green popped a hand out to warn him, wiggling her fingers. "Don't shoot. It's me."

He relaxed slightly. "The others?"

"Martinez and Singh are complaining they didn't get to blow anything up… I think they're rigging a back wall just for fun."

He sighed, shaking his head faintly.

"Carlisle and the Hoppers are doing another sweep, but I think we've got all the guards."

"There were two on their way to Rybinski. May is checking the office. She might need back up."

"Negative," May answered through the earwig. "Rybinski's dead. The guards took him out before we could get to him."

Phil frowned. "Rybinski was a trained killed. You're telling me two guards got the drop on him?"

"If it's any consolation, he has no head. Judging by the way the body's laying, they probably convinced him they were getting him to safety and attacked from behind."

"How is that supposed to console me? Or Fury when we have to report in."

"This was not our fault. Whoever hired him must have planted the guards for a situation just like this."

"Yeah," he sighed, closing his eyes a moment. "But this leaves us exactly where we were."

"I'll give the office a sweep, see what information I can gather. If we are lucky, there will be something to point us in the right direction."

Phil hummed, but he wasn't so sure Rybinski would be so careless.

"Henryk?" a quiet voice asked.

Phil's eyes darted down to the tiny girl, suddenly looking nothing like the vicious child of before. He stared at her searchingly. She didn't look scared, nor did she look sad, just… unsure.

Phil stared at her a long moment and then turned to see Green, who held her hands up immediately. "Hey, I'm shit with kids. You don't want to pass her my way. Besides, my Polish is awful."

Daria glanced at Green and then back to him. She reached forward and tugged at the sleeve of his jacket. "Nie żyje?" (Is he dead?)

Phil paused, suddenly remembering May's words of warning from earlier that afternoon. He looked down at the diminutive girl, made mostly of riotous hair, and he nodded, short and simple. "Tak maleńka. Nie żyje." (Yes, little one. He is.)

What he was expecting was not what he got. He expected tears; shuddering, heart-wrenching, soul-squeezing sobs that made him regret his choices and his job and the casualties of it. Instead, he got laughter. High and slightly hysterical, but laughter all the same. She covered her mouth with both hands, one on top of the other, her fingers boney and her fingernails chipped and bitted down to the quick. She sniffled, dragging in air through her nose, her shoulders shaking as she tried and failed to trap her laughter.

He stared at her, confused, wondering if maybe this feral little girl was a little crazier than he was expecting.

Slowly, her laughter began to peter out and then she raised her chin, her head falling back against the wall, and he watched all of the humor drain right out of her. She was young, so young. With bags under her eyes and her cheeks a little sunken; she wasn't just small, she was neglected. When she looked up at him then, he saw the tears, brimming in her bright blue eyes, clinging to long, dark lashes. "Good," she said, her voice a near growl. Not in Polish, but in English, gritted out between clenched teeth.

And Phil knew at once that she wasn't a casualty.

Daria Rybinski, just eight years old, was a survivor.

On the return flight to SHIELD HQ, May sat beside him. The cargo hold was filled with every scrap of paper in the Rybinski house, anything that might give them some idea of who had hired him to carry out the assassinations. The team was in various places, some of them taking the time to get a few hours sleep, while others were still too wired. Okada sat up front with the pilot; anything with an engine meant he needed to be front and center. Phil could vaguely hear The Hoppers arguing somewhere nearby, as was their default setting. Green and Carlisle had sat as far away from each other as they could get, both of them falling asleep in their jump seats. Martinez and Singh were huddled together, going over a set of very particular papers, which May had suggested might have something to do with a bomb. While they'd assumed the assassinations would be of the sniper-variety, they couldn't ignore the fact that Rybinski was a chemist long before he was a mafia leader, meaning there was a lot more than just one way for him to kill someone.

But, while Phil would usually be sitting back to go over the details of the mission, asking himself what he did wrong, what he did right, how he could improve, etcetera, his attention was diverted elsewhere.

Daria was wrapped in an emergency blanket, curled up in a ball on the floor, her thick hair falling over her face and blocking it entirely from view. But the steady rise and fall of her chest told him she'd long fallen asleep. He'd treated her ankle; it was a small sprain but enough that she couldn't walk on it. While she'd refused to let him carry her outright, she demanded that he give her a piggyback instead. He was almost completely sure it was because she would have the advantage if anything went wrong. She would choke him out just as she had the guard. He wouldn't react the same, of course; he knew of at least three different pressure points he could reach, even with her on his back, that would knock her out cold or at least release her arm from around him. But he understood the need to be in control and so he let her think she was.

She was still in her pajamas; a plain grey color, a little too big on her and not the least bit childlike. When he asked her if there was anything she wanted to bring with her, she'd given a quick, decisive shake of her head. He thought back to his old childhood and how he wouldn't have gone anywhere without his Captain America trading cards. But it seemed Daria didn't have anything like that and she seemed almost pleased that there was nothing of her home that was coming with her.

He gazed down at her as she laid on the floor, curled up in an impossibly tiny ball.

"Do you know what you're doing?" May asked him, her voice level.

He turned to her, half-smiling. "No idea," he answered sincerely.

She stared at him curiously, reading his eyes as if they held the answer to every question she could ever wonder. To everybody else, he was a blank slate; there was nothing anybody could divine from him that he didn't want them to know. But May was different.

Her attention dropped then, to the mop of tangled curls. "She handled herself well."

"She did," he agreed.

"You understand that for her to do that, she had to have been taught."

A muscle in his cheek ticked. "I do."

"All those years, never seen on camera, kept from school…" She shook her head, her expression tightening minutely. "He was not raising a daughter… He was building her to be a weapon."

His hand balled up, fingers tightening into a fist. "He's gone now. She can start over."

May hummed, her disagreement clear.

He turned to her, an eyebrow raised. "You don't think so?"

"Muscle memory," she said. "She's young, but she'll retain that information. She's a fighter. And after what I suspect she's been through, she won't trust people easily. Putting her with a family will be hard enough, but with the trauma she's had, finding the right family will be almost impossible."

"What are you suggesting?" Phil asked, his voice carefully devoid of emotion.

She stared at him a long moment and then turned away, deciding not to share her opinion.

He hated when she did that.

Frowning at her, he turned his attention back to the girl. He knew May was right. Daria was… fractured. Her eyes were wild, her actions just as uncontrolled. She was all instinct; reacting to survive, attacking to protect herself. She was devoid of all the things children should have. He could remember his own childhood; playing stick ball, avoiding homework, complaining to his mom about how unfair chores were. He remembered toys and TV shows and staying out until the sun went down before dragging his feet home. He remembered riding his bike everywhere he went, hanging out with friends, reading comic books in bed with a flashlight so his mom wouldn't shout at him to go to sleep already. He didn't think Daria got any of that; she was just a captive in a room, hidden from the rest of the world, cut off from people, only allowed to learn to fight and survive. Had her father ever loved her? Did he tell her that? Did she know what it was like to have a parent that cared about her?

It was bothering Phil. He was usually unshakeable. He'd seen too much, done too much, to be surprised anymore. But this girl… This somewhat feral, extremely dangerous, lonely little girl was getting to him.

And he had no idea what that meant.

Phil Coulson didn't like not knowing things.