The guy’s gone quiet -- some poor young sonofabitch they installed as a guard,
who’d started out all swagger and threats and hadn’t taken very long to
start shaking, point him in the right direction. (He doesn’t look much more
than twenty, but that doesn’t mean anything -- there’s no such thing as too
young with this crowd.) It’s a reprieve from his chatter from earlier; maybe he’s
a nervous talker, or maybe he thought he could annoy Bucky enough to get
him to leave quicker.
It really doesn’t matter -- he’s got what he needed, a couple of a files, archival
AV recordings, and some tech that’s seen better days -- and it’s only taken
the better part of an hour to make sure nothing’s missing. This isn’t hardly
a library, so he can take as long as he needs to go through it all at his place.
There’s plenty left in the room that he hasn’t touched, hasn’t even gone near;
medical supplies, objects that look vaguely familiar in a way he doesn’t want
to question too hard. More than enough for them to be able to pretend that
what’s missing was gone when he got there, if they bother to check.
Bucky plants himself in front of the kid, smile deceptively friendly. It’s
half-familiar; and he doesn’t quite feel bad about the way the kid flinches
when Bucky claps a hand on his shoulder. (Occupational hazard, he reasons.)
“You wanna keep breathin’, you’re gonna keep this between us, huh?” It’s
not the right time yet to go in guns blazing, but he’s been trying not to leave
too much of a trail of bodies in his wake. Doesn’t need the questions. He
doesn’t have to worry about it anyway, because as soon as the kid nods,
he gets a left hook hard enough to keep him out for a good long while.
He sends the text as he makes his way out, one-handed.
[sms:] i’m good to go. you nearby?
