Read Online Civil War Prose Novel by Stuart Moore - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Stuart Moore
Ads: Link
grandfather, Hill. Did you know that?”
She said nothing.
“His unit suffered eighty percent losses in the Bulge. They retreated along the English Channel, cut off, no supplies. The weather was brutal: huge storms, blinding snowfalls, sub-zero temperatures. One man bled out; another died stopping a Panzer division from crossing the river.
“Corporal Francis Hill kept his last buddy alive. When we found them, they were half-starved and suffering from severe exposure. But he’d held his bridge against the Germans, and saved at least one man’s life.”
Hill just stared at him.
“Did he ever tell you that story, Director Hill?”
“A dozen times.”
“He was one of many true heroes I met in that war.” Slowly, Cap turned and addressed the circle of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. “Put your weapons down, boys.”
“Captain America,” Hill said slowly, “is not in command here.”
She stepped forward, her teeth gritted in rage.
“ Their war,” she hissed. “Not mine.”
“Weapons. Down,” Cap repeated. “Or I will not be responsible for what comes next.”
“Tranquilizers on. Get ready.”
“This is insane, Hill.”
“There’s an easy solution.”
“Damn you for this.”
“Damn you for making me do thi—”
Cap jerked his arm up and out, ramming his shield into the agent’s rifle just as the man pulled the trigger. Cap leapt upward, pivoted in midair, and grabbed the second man’s neck, twisting just hard enough to knock him off his feet. The man let out a strangled cry.
“Tranquilizers!” Hill yelled. “NOW!”
Cap grabbed the third agent by his riot gear, held him up in the air. The barrage of tranq capsules struck the agent full-on, shielding Cap for a crucial second. Then he flung the agent into his attackers and took off at a run.
“Take him! Take him down !”
He plowed through the line of agents, punching and battering, slapping their guns away and knocking the men off balance. Armor had its drawbacks; Cap was lighter, swifter than his enemies. He flung his impenetrable shield at a pair of attackers, slicing the tips off their guns. When it boomeranged back, he snatched it out of the air without looking.
The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with cruel features stood before the corridor leading outside, blocking Cap’s way. Four more men backed him up, all armed with heavy-gauge rifles. These weren’t tranq guns. Not anymore.
Cap raised his shield, and his mouth curled into a battle-grimace. “Don’t even think it, little man.”
Then he charged , head down, his shield held straight out like a battering ram. He plowed into the agent, smashing the man’s jaw. He swung the shield to one side, then the other, toppling S.H.I.E.L.D. agents like tenpins.
“DIRECTOR HILL TO ALL UNITS.” The loudspeakers blared now, almost deafeningly. “STOP CAPTAIN AMERICA. I REPEAT: STOP CAPTAIN AMERICA!”
Cap dashed out into the hallway, bullets whistling all around him. Shells, pulse beams, tranq capsules. He paused before a small window, holding his shield up behind him to block the fire.
He waited, braced against the window, for a break in the fire. Inevitably, it came.
Muscles honed in World War II coiled tight, and Captain America swiveled around and punched out the window with his shield. Then he leapt, out the window and into open air. A fresh barrage of bullets followed him; he twisted and dropped, surrendering his actions to pure survival instinct.
The flight deck lay below, but that was no good; he’d be a sitting duck. He bounced off a gunmount and flipped himself upward, heading toward the upper levels of the Helicarrier. Grabbed for purchase on the outer wall, grasped a disused propeller, and swung himself up again.
Below, a phalanx of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents appeared in the shattered window. They looked around, sighted him, and fired upward.
This is bad, he thought. Six miles up and nowhere to run.
Then he saw it: an old P-40 Warhawk, just arcing down toward the flight deck. A relic,
She said nothing.
“His unit suffered eighty percent losses in the Bulge. They retreated along the English Channel, cut off, no supplies. The weather was brutal: huge storms, blinding snowfalls, sub-zero temperatures. One man bled out; another died stopping a Panzer division from crossing the river.
“Corporal Francis Hill kept his last buddy alive. When we found them, they were half-starved and suffering from severe exposure. But he’d held his bridge against the Germans, and saved at least one man’s life.”
Hill just stared at him.
“Did he ever tell you that story, Director Hill?”
“A dozen times.”
“He was one of many true heroes I met in that war.” Slowly, Cap turned and addressed the circle of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. “Put your weapons down, boys.”
“Captain America,” Hill said slowly, “is not in command here.”
She stepped forward, her teeth gritted in rage.
“ Their war,” she hissed. “Not mine.”
“Weapons. Down,” Cap repeated. “Or I will not be responsible for what comes next.”
“Tranquilizers on. Get ready.”
“This is insane, Hill.”
“There’s an easy solution.”
“Damn you for this.”
“Damn you for making me do thi—”
Cap jerked his arm up and out, ramming his shield into the agent’s rifle just as the man pulled the trigger. Cap leapt upward, pivoted in midair, and grabbed the second man’s neck, twisting just hard enough to knock him off his feet. The man let out a strangled cry.
“Tranquilizers!” Hill yelled. “NOW!”
Cap grabbed the third agent by his riot gear, held him up in the air. The barrage of tranq capsules struck the agent full-on, shielding Cap for a crucial second. Then he flung the agent into his attackers and took off at a run.
“Take him! Take him down !”
He plowed through the line of agents, punching and battering, slapping their guns away and knocking the men off balance. Armor had its drawbacks; Cap was lighter, swifter than his enemies. He flung his impenetrable shield at a pair of attackers, slicing the tips off their guns. When it boomeranged back, he snatched it out of the air without looking.
The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent with cruel features stood before the corridor leading outside, blocking Cap’s way. Four more men backed him up, all armed with heavy-gauge rifles. These weren’t tranq guns. Not anymore.
Cap raised his shield, and his mouth curled into a battle-grimace. “Don’t even think it, little man.”
Then he charged , head down, his shield held straight out like a battering ram. He plowed into the agent, smashing the man’s jaw. He swung the shield to one side, then the other, toppling S.H.I.E.L.D. agents like tenpins.
“DIRECTOR HILL TO ALL UNITS.” The loudspeakers blared now, almost deafeningly. “STOP CAPTAIN AMERICA. I REPEAT: STOP CAPTAIN AMERICA!”
Cap dashed out into the hallway, bullets whistling all around him. Shells, pulse beams, tranq capsules. He paused before a small window, holding his shield up behind him to block the fire.
He waited, braced against the window, for a break in the fire. Inevitably, it came.
Muscles honed in World War II coiled tight, and Captain America swiveled around and punched out the window with his shield. Then he leapt, out the window and into open air. A fresh barrage of bullets followed him; he twisted and dropped, surrendering his actions to pure survival instinct.
The flight deck lay below, but that was no good; he’d be a sitting duck. He bounced off a gunmount and flipped himself upward, heading toward the upper levels of the Helicarrier. Grabbed for purchase on the outer wall, grasped a disused propeller, and swung himself up again.
Below, a phalanx of S.H.I.E.L.D. agents appeared in the shattered window. They looked around, sighted him, and fired upward.
This is bad, he thought. Six miles up and nowhere to run.
Then he saw it: an old P-40 Warhawk, just arcing down toward the flight deck. A relic,
Similar Books
