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The street below John is blanketed by the early morning stillness, illuminated by the orange sun peeking over the skyline. The shops lining it are closed, shutters drawn over doors. The sidewalks are empty, clear of civilians.
Good. It means he won’t have to worry much about collateral damage.
Yelena’s voice crackles to life from the piece tucked inside John’s ear. “The target should be making a left turn onto the street in approximately fifteen seconds.” She says, tone flat, focus locked onto the task at hand.
John presses a finger to the earpiece. “Copy that.”
Silence, and then Yelena’s voice buzzes through again. “Are you sure you don’t need Alexei’s help?”
“Affirmative. No backup.” John says firmly.
“Okay.” Yelena acquiesces. “Bring him back to us, Walker.”
He cracks his neck to the right, then the left. Time to go to work.
The armored truck rounds the corner just as Yelena had described. It sticks out on the idyllic street like a sore thumb. The entire vehicle is painted black, and the windshield is tinted dark. The sides of the truck are blank, no logos or insignias. Trying so hard to be nondescript that it becomes conspicuous. John scoffs to himself. Valentina never learns.
The truck continues down the street, deceptively slow, and John crouches down, energy building up in his bent legs like a coiled spring. 3…2…1…
He launches himself off the rooftop with the force that only a super soldier could. He plummets feet first onto the hood of the truck like a missile, momentum denting and crumpling reinforced steel as if it were paper and stopping the truck in its tracks. A second later, his bent shield meets ballistic glass. The windshield shatters, and John reaches his free hand inside. He pulls out the two guards occupying the front seats, one after the other, tossing them carelessly onto the rough concrete. John never pulls his punches, and he certainly isn’t going to now.
With the front taken care of, John hops off the hood and rounds the back of the truck. He sizes up the reinforced double doors for just a moment before closing his fist around the handle of one and tearing it off with a grunt. From the inside, someone immediately starts firing, but John’s shield is there to meet the bullets as he rips off the other door.
Now that his view of the inside is fully unobstructed, John can see the gurney in the center, and the armored men surrounding the limp figure strapped to it. Rage strikes him so hard that he twitches.
As much as he wants to go to Bob, he has to eliminate the threats first.
It’s quick work. John bashes heads into walls, throws men out onto the street, and breaks limbs with brutal efficiency. Bringing the whole team would’ve been overkill. Once again, Val severely underestimated all of them. He’s sure that she understands that now. Last he heard, Bucky and Ava were on their way to her hiding spot at the compound that she was trying to have Bob delivered to under their noses.
John wades through a sea of Kevlar-covered bodies, finally able to get to Bob’s side.
They’ve got his limbs secured to the sides of the gurney with thick metal cuffs, and straps buckle him to the bed. An anesthetic mask is strapped over his mouth and nose, connected to a metal tank full of whatever sedative Val had her minions cook up.
John gently unfastens the mask from Bob’s face and tosses it aside so that he can start breathing in fresh oxygen instead of the shit they were pumping into his lungs to keep him under. The mask lands in the corner with a quiet hiss, still expelling gas. John’s calloused fingers move down to the restraints, undoing buckles and straining with exertion as he forces cuffs open with his bare hands. Between this and the box she’d stuck him in, it seems like Val spares no expense when it comes to trapping Bob, a fact that makes John’s blood boil. He presses his lips into a thin line as he pries open the last cuff, trying to focus.
Despite all the noise and movement, Bob still hasn’t stirred. Before he can start spiraling with worry, John moves back to the head of the gurney and takes Bob’s face in his hands.
“Bobby.” He says, patting his cheeks lightly in an attempt to rouse him and frowning at the lack of response he gets. He tries very hard not to think about the last time someone he cared about was unresponsive like this. “Bobby, come on, you gotta wake up for me.”
Finally, finally, Bob starts to come around. He blinks up muzzily at John a few times, glazed eyes taking in his surroundings as he inhales heavily. "There we go." John murmurs, body easing with relief as he rubs small, soothing circles on Bob's jaw with his thumb. His face is adorably confused. John wants to cover him in bubble wrap and never let him leave the tower again, invulnerability be damned.
“John.” Bob hums slowly, contentedly. His lips curve into that smile of his, big and dopey and beautiful. If Bucky and Ava haven't killed Val already, John is going to do it himself. “You came.”
Yeah. He came. He always will.