CHAPTER NINE
CLEAN

TARGET: ALEXANDER SULLIVAN

ANNIKA SLEPT AFTER STEVE and woke before him too, at precisely 5:13 in the morning. In the night—or rather, in the last four or so hours—Steve had moved onto his side. When her eyes slid open, she could no longer see his face: only the back of his head, the nape of his neck. In this soft, early light, his hair was a sandy, sallow blond.

Annika was much quicker to rise than she was to go down: she had another quick shower, savouring the hot water and the shower head's pressure while she could (the likelihood of their accommodation from here-on-out ranking 3-stars like the Talbott did was... well, not promising) then changed into a black hoodie and yoga pants. Swapped her typical boots for runners instead: also black. Soles, logo, laces and all. She tied her hair up, forgoing the ribbon for the time being, and pulled on a navy-blue cap. She considered waking Steve, letting him join in on her early morning fun—read: reconnaissance—but decided against it.

Let him rest.

🕷️

SHE RETURNED ABOUT AN HOUR AND A HALF LATER, balancing a cardboard travel tray of coffee and a takeaway bag of breakfast food. Annika found Steve awake, seated at the lotus couch, reading. She sat opposite him, like she did the night before, giving the book a once-over: it was brand new, with a too-glossy cover characteristic of mass-market paperbacks. The Road, by Cormac McCarthy.

She had an image of Steve—of him back "home" in Washington, D.C., their shared way-station. Packing his backpack for their road-trip, folding his clothes into small, compact squares; rolling up his travel toiletry bag complete with toothbrush, toothpaste, razors, whatever else; and placing, at the top of his 28L black Antler, a small selection of books for the road.

Annika felt a sudden endearment for him, then, one she didn't want to give a name to. A real name at least, like her rivers, or her states. So she wiped the coffee table clean—it was already spotless, but the act made her feel good, thorough—and set down her foraging.

"Good morning," she said. He'd opened the blinds, letting the light colour the room bright and pure.

"Morning," Steve said back, dog-earing his page and closing his book. He put it aside and folded his arms, his eyes settling almost immediately on Annika's face. "Have fun?"

"Oh, totally. More fun than a barrel of monkeys."

"Where did you go?"

Annika smiled, switched-on and playful even with her meagre four hours of sleep. She gave Steve his coffee—again, just a latte—and then claimed her own, taking a long, deep sip. "Feeling the separation anxiety already?"

Steve arched a brow, but he didn't indulge her with an answer, instead wrapping his hands around his coffee.

"I went for a jog. Down to Lincoln Park via the Concrete Beach."

"I thought you said you didn't know if you liked jogging."

"I wasn't lying." Annika shrugged, opening up the takeaway bag. The suite was filled with the smell of hot breakfast food—bacon-and-egg rolls, pancakes, hash browns. Annika gave Steve a bacon-and-egg roll and two hashbrowns, then rose from the couch to find herself some utensils from the kitchenette so she could eat her pancakes 'like a lady', as her mother would say. "I also did a few very inconspicuous laps around the block—around the Talbott, the Waldorf Astoria, and through the alleyway in-between."

"Ah."

"Ah, indeed." Successfully locating a knife and fork in the kitchenette top drawer, Annika sat back down, peeling back the lid of her paper pancakes container. It was flimsy, and soaked with syrup—as were the pancakes, on both counts—but she had no complaints. "Look out the window there."

He did. Annika reached out to touch his jaw, angling his head so his eyes went exactly where she wanted them to go: the left side of the alley-way between the Talbott and the Waldorf Astoria where the narrow walkway between buildings became obscured from view by a structure of some sort, extending from the latter property over to the former. Like a strangler fig, twisting and tightening around its host tree, constricting it, covering it. "What's under there," she moved his head to emphasise the structure, "is the Waldorf Astoria back entrance and loading dock."

She dropped her hand from his jaw and he turned immediately to look at her, the space between his eyebrows creasing as her drew them together. "How secure is it?"

"It isn't." Annika had two pancakes. She cut one of them into quarters and stabbed a piece with her fork. "Reception buzzes in anyone who claims they have a delivery or says they work at the hotel and forgot their fob."

"That's convenient."

"I agree." Annika said. She had another piece of pancake, then got up again to retrieve Ezra's booklet. In her mind, she'd started calling it a cheat-sheet, singular, even if it didn't make that much sense. She opened it up to the section that detailed the Waldorf Astoria, giving Steve a minute to take the first bite of his roll before she spoke again. "All the guest floors have a similar layout, hallway wise—although the configuration and number allocation changes with the types of rooms, and the higher you go you can expect the rooms to be bigger in size, more premium, we've got an allegedly 'recent' copy of the fifteenth floor's emergency evacuation plan. Pretty much tells us all we need to know about that floor."

There was also a black-and-white screenshot of Sullivan's reservation. Annika laughed to herself at the thought of Ezra sitting in his study—he was a professional, he had a study—cherry-picking which pictures and diagrams to print in greyscale, and which ones to splurge on with colour ink. She turned the cheat-sheet to the double-spread that contained the reservation, smoothing down the paper.

"He's in room 1503. Which—look out there for me again, Rogers—" again he obeyed, and again Annika moved his head, "—is right over there. Furthest corner, with the balcony."

"He's in hiding but he booked a room with a balcony?"

"Clearly he favours fineries over, you know, personal safety."

"His mistake."

Annika released Steve again. "So, you're going to sneak in to the Waldorf Astoria and I'm going to snipe Sullivan from the Talbott."

Steve was slower to look at her this time; at her plan—rather, her declaration—he scoffed gently. "Is that our play?"

"I bet you say that a lot with your Avengers," Annika said with a cloying smile. "What's our play?"

Steve opened his mouth to say something, then closed it.

"That's what I thought. It works, though, with the information we have. You can get buzzed in through the back entrance by saying you're a room attendant from the agency—Ezra's notes on the property say that they have a skeleton staff of part-time crew, supplemented by casual workers from various employment agencies across the city. You go down to the laundry, you get a uniform, grab a housekeeping trolley and a set of keys if you can; then head up to the fifteenth floor in one of the service elevators. Get into Sullivan's room, posing as a cleaner, and open his windows for me. His balcony door too, if you want to be extra helpful."

"Why the windows?"

"Well, as you can see here, two of our three windows don't open." Annika cocked her head in the general direction of their left-most window; the single-hung one with the black sill. "I'll shoot through the one that does open to avoid the sound of shattering glass that might draw unwanted attention. But that'll mean nothing if I'm shooting his windows out. So you have to get in there and open it so neither of us have to worry about breaking glass."

"I see."

"And then I'll grapple over."

"You have a grapnel on you?"

"Yes. In gauntlet form. It's... technically a prototype, but it works well enough. I'm like a slightly less well-funded Batman."

Steve smiled. "I got that reference."

"Of course you did—you were alive when they started writing Batman, Steve. You predate it, as you predate most pop culture references."

He made a face. "Well, still. Let me have it."

"It's yours," Annika said with a laugh. She finished one pancake but had no appetite for the other; instead, she leaned back in her seat. Steve finally got started on his bacon-and-egg roll, and they sat in silence for five or so minutes. Steve eating, looking out the window; Annika not eating, looking at Steve. Eventually, she said, "Are you happy with the plan?"

He nodded, taking a moment to swallow what he was chewing. Then, he nodded again. "In the future, I'd like to be part of coming up with it, but yeah. It seems pretty sound." A pause. "Except for the part where I have to sneak in to a 5-star hotel."

"Eh, it'll hold. No-one ever pays attention to the housekeeping staff."

"That's—"

"—messed up, but true. Besides, you don't practice archery, do you?"

"Not currently."

"Funny," Annika said, rolling her eyes. "Seriously, put on a housekeeping polo and no-one'll look at you twice. Even with all your..." she gestured vaguely at his chest, biceps, body on the whole, "you."

"Thanks."

"Wasn't a compliment, more of an observation. And even then..."

Steve laughed, light and coltish. "Okay."

"If anyone stops and questions you, just tell them it's your first day at the hotel. If they keep asking, or try to show you around, just... gently knock them unconscious and hide them in a closet somewhere."

"I take back what I said about this plan being sound."

"Well it was your word, not mine, princess."

"You didn't deny it, though."

"Didn't endorse it, either." Annika had a long sip of her coffee. "If you want to spend another day or so surveilling him, we can. I don't mind. But he's kept the same schedule ever since the fall of Hydra; sure, he might be paranoid, but he has no reason to believe that we specifically are after him. Furthermore, no reason to suddenly change his routine. Trust me, Steve—there are much worse people on our list. I'd rather spend our time on them than this guy. He's in finance, for God's sake. He can't even fight."

"Am I allowed to see 'our list'?"

Annika recoiled internally. That was what he took away from her spiel? "No reason why you can't. But I doubt it'll mean anything to you."

"You don't know that."

Annika shrugged, trying to pass herself off as nonplussed. She went to the closet and took out the Moleskine journal Fury had given her. She gave it to Steve but didn't sit back down—instead, she scooped up her coffee cup and sat on the side of the bed that faced the window, careful not to step on Steve's comforter where it lay on the carpeted floor.

The journal's first page had the list of names; written on the subsequent pages were their last-known addresses. The handwriting varied, from Fury's to Sharon's, Nat's to Maria's and back again. Very little of it was Annika's own.

"Only one of these names rings a bell," Steve said, his expression stony. "James Balk. He's former S.T.R.I.K.E.; I've only heard of him from some of the other guys. Never met him myself."

"That checks out. He's next—he lives a little ways out of inner-city Chicago. McHenry county."

"He's Hydra?"

"Very much so. But he's also not the priority right now."

"Of course."

"I imagine Sullivan is still asleep, so let's take a couple hours to wake up, go over the details, and get started. Are you happy with that?"

"Ecstatic."

🕷️

AT TEN A.M., SULLIVAN OPENED HIS BLACKOUT CURTAINS. Ezra had picked Steve and Annika's room perfectly: Annika could see almost the entire interior of the Waldorf Astoria Chicago's room 1503. She watched through her single-hung window at the Talbott, her fingers interlaced around a completely empty mug as she pretended to admire her suite's non-existent view. Her expression blissful and her eyes averted, Sullivan found nothing amiss. In fact, she doubted he even noticed she was there.

Behind her, Steve sat on the bed. "He's awake?"

Annika nodded. "He's awake. You're up, Rogers."

They went over the plan again, then once more to be sure: then, Steve got changed into clothes he was willing to ditch in the men's change room at the Waldorf Astoria. Annika kept her eyes on Sullivan—he was ten or so meters across from her, maybe three meters down. She ignored the flash of Steve's chest, bare, in the glass. And then, when he stepped back into view to check on Sullivan one last time before departing, she ignored the nape of his neck, too.

"Take this," Annika said. She turned, reaching up to slot a wireless earpiece into his ear. "It's not exactly Avengers-grade, but it'll do the job. I've got one too."

"Thank you."

"It's nothing." She reached for his hand, placing something in his palm and closing his fingers around it. "You'll need this, as well."

"What is it?" Steve blinked, staring at Annika for a moment longer than what was probably appropriate before looking down to the object in his hand. It was a pin: small, barely the size of his thumbnail. Gold, intricate, and in the long-legged, spindly shape of a spider.

"A very small body-cam. Disguised. Put the pin on your collar when you've gotten yourself one of the housekeeping polos, then tap the abdomen twice with your thumb. I'll tell you whether it's been activated or not."

"Are you sure it won't be too obvious?"

"I'm sure. Besides, it doesn't matter—I need to keep an eye on you."

"Worried?"

"If that's what you want me to be."

Steve kissed his teeth. "Maybe."

"But you seem pretty competent, so hopefully there isn't anything for me to worry about."

"Only 'pretty competent'?"

"I don't know, I've only ever seen you on the news. And the most recent time, they were calling you a fugitive. I think it's well within my rights to be concerned."

"Concerned," Steve repeated. "Are you sure about that? What was it you said before? Something about separation anxiety?"

Annika scoffed. "Shut up, Steve. You need to go."

He left his shield in the closet by the door. Annika watched him go, calling out to him just before he disappeared out into the hallway: "Be safe."

"You too," he said, flashing her a small, lopsided smile. Then he was gone.

🕷️

HAVING PULLED A CHAIR UP to the far left window, Annika watched Steve from sixteen floors above: his little blond head, bobbing in the alley-way below like a buoy in a murky grey harbour. He looked up for a second, too far to meet her gaze but close enough for her to feel his, then disappeared under cover. Over the earpiece, Annika heard the buzz of the back entrance intercom.

STEVE: Hi, sorry—I'm here from the agency, for housekeeping work for a few hours today? They didn't give me a key or a fob or... anything like that.

RECEPTION: No problem, I'll let you in.

STEVE: Thanks so much, man. Sorry to bother you.

A heavy, metallic click loud enough to be heard over the comms.

STEVE: I'm inside.

ANNIKA: Housekeeping department's downstairs. You don't need a key to get down there, just—(she looked down at the cheat sheet open on her lap)—use the service elevator. It's straight down the hallway from where you are, then your first left. Don't go through the metal swing doors on the right, that's the kitchen.

STEVE: Noted.

While Steve headed down to Housekeeping, Annika stood up, moved the chair away from the window—its back parallel with the wall between the single-hung window and the one beside it—then got out her laptop. She set it up on the chair seat, opening one of her programs in preparation for the body-cam's imminent activation. Then, after checking to make sure Sullivan hadn't left his room, she went to the closet to retrieve her bow and arrows.

Ezra was a good listener, she could admit that much (probably just not to his face.) He'd procured for her a recurve bow, but not just any recurve bow: it was, as far as Annika could tell, one-of-a-kind. Handmade, Annika recognised the craftsmanship almost immediately—that of the Wachter workshop based out in Idaho. The waiting list for a bow like this was two years or longer. If Annika was the kind of psychopath who'd pass a weapon down to the children she knew she'd never have, it would make a beautiful, if not insane, heirloom. Dark wood, carved intricately all over: arrows, trees, spiders and wolves. A path tracing from one limb to the other: all Annika needed now was a red hood-and-cape, a wolf.

She took a minute to admire the bow, another few to restring it, then one more to read the handwritten note Ezra had left tucked inside the case: Be responsible, and please don't break it. It was expensive. E.

STEVE: Annika, you there?

ANNIKA: (returning to the window, bow slung over her shoulder as she put on a pair of gloves, then an armguard) I'm here.

STEVE: I'm turning on the body-cam... now.

A window popped up on Annika's laptop and she maximised it, eyes narrowing in focus as the screen turned from black, to white, then to picture: a men's change-room, lined on all sides with scratched-up beige lockers. The video feed was slightly warped at the ages, curving in on itself like a fisheye; but the image was clear enough. Steve turned, facing an open locker and the thin, plastic mirror glued to the inside of its door.

He wore a navy polo and wired earphones he must've snatched from the locker; a pair of sunglasses, too. Smart. The video shifted, scrubbed, as he adjusted the pin on his polo collar.

STEVE: Is this good?

ANNIKA: Perfect.

Through the feed Annika watched Steve steal a trolley, manage a few "Good morning"s to passing staff—other room attendants, some food and beverage people, even some guy in a suit, clutching an iPad—and head back into the service lift, up to level fifteen. As he drew closer to Sullivan's floor, Annika's attention returned to 1503's window in the building across.

Sullivan was sitting cross-legged on his bed, a large, bulky laptop balanced across both his knees. He was pale and scrawny, scruffy, not in the unkempt way Ezra was but the way that older men in nightclubs were, pathetic and leering, washed-up and lame. Annika had never really been to the clubs—just bars with Mac and Nat, mostly hole-in-the-wall dive joints back in Manhattan—but she had a clear enough picture of the type of person Sullivan probably was. Don't judge a book by its cover, sure, unless its cover literally read Twenty-First Century Nazi. In that case, please judge, then eliminate with extreme (if not ironic) prejudice.

He wore a Waldorf Astoria-monogrammed terry bathrobe and Annika hated him, not just because he was definitely an asshole, but because he looked like one, too. When Steve said over the comms,

STEVE: On the fifteenth floor now—exiting the service area,

she felt something close to satisfaction. She might've been built for suffering, but she didn't always enjoy imparting it to others: it took too long, and it rarely had the outcome one hoped for. The few Western movies she'd seen in her youth had made revenge seem a lot more rewarding, more abundant, more clean. Another American lie, her old trainer would've said. Then, he would've laughed with his whole chest, the sound thick like blood and melodic like a wolf howling. Howl, howl, howl. A younger Annika would've stared at him blankly.

But this Annika knew better. She understood.

She turned her attention to her laptop screen again. Steve was walking down the fifteenth-floor hallway, pushing the housekeeping trolley slowly, steadily. Annika studied the scene, however inconsequential it was: Steve's hands, tight around the trolley handles. The neat compartments of individually wrapped soaps, shampoos and conditioners. Rolls of toilet paper and black bin liners; towels, both full-sized and small.

Steve eased the trolley down to 1503, then sidestepped around it and knocked on the door.

    STEVE: Housekeeping!

He pulled the do-not-disturb sign off the doorknob and hid it in one of the trolley's many compartments. A minute passed, and Sullivan still didn't open the door. Steve knocked again.

STEVE: Hello, this is housekeeping.

Annika looked away from her laptop screen and down at Sullivan. His head tilted toward his own door, he called out, "Can you not see the 'do-not-disturb' sign on the door?"

    STEVE: There's no sign here.

    SULLIVAN: There definitely is.

    STEVE: There isn't, sir.

SULLIVAN: (slamming his laptop shut and getting up from his bed) Well, let's bet your job on it, shall we?

Annika smiled to herself, as Sullivan disappeared from her line of sight and reappeared on her laptop as the door to 1503 swung open. Smugly, he reached for a door-hanger sign that was nowhere to be found. His face fell.

    STEVE: See, sir? No sign.

    SULLIVAN: Well, I—(he scoffs)—I don't know what happened to it.

    STEVE: Maybe you forgot to put it on the door. It happens all the time.

    SULLIVAN: I still don't want my room cleaned.

STEVE: I understand. But maybe you'd like your towels changed over? I could also clear those room service plates for you. Make things a little neater in here.

SULLIVAN: ...

SULLIVAN: Fine.

STEVE: Amazing. Now, (gesturing to the trolley) if you don't mind—

Sullivan rolled his eyes and stepped aside, letting Steve push the trolley into the room.

SULLIVAN: Take out the earphones. You're not being paid to listen to music.

STEVE: (shrugging) Okay.

ANNIKA: God, this guy's insufferable.

Steve let out a soft sound, something that could've been a laugh. Annika smiled to herself.

STEVE: I'll give your coffee table a quick wipe down, too. Do you mind if I open the window? Don't want the chemicals getting too... concentrated in your room.

ANNIKA: Clever, Rogers. Real clever.

SULLIVAN: Fine.

Disregarding the body-cam and its live feed, Annika focused her full attention on what she could see through her window into Sullivan's. Down in Sullivan's room, Steve stepped over to the window facing the Talbott. He turned the lock, lifted it open—glancing up for a split second, his blue eyes meeting hers—before turning away and walking back to his trolley.

Sullivan looked out the window, too, but down—into the alley-way instead of up, into his fate.

SULLIVAN: (Returning to his bed; placing one hand protectively on his laptop, as if suspicious) That's an interesting pin you're wearing. It's very... unique.

STEVE: Thank you.

SULLIVAN: (squinting) Where did you get it?

STEVE: Uh—my girlfriend gave it to me.

SULLIVAN: Your girlfriend—?

Two things happened, then:

1) Sullivan looked up at the exact angle between his room and theirs, his eyes finding Annika's and widening in realisation, then recognition, then horror;

SULLIVAN: Shit!

and

2) Annika's gaze dropped from Sullivan's face to his throat. She breathed in, nocked an arrow, took but a second to aim and then, breathing out, let it fly.

🕷️

SEVENTEEN IS A KNIFE. Despite everything that has had to come together for this happen, despite the workmanship and attention to detail, the blade is unbalanced. Anna—no, Annika, that's her name now, that's who she is—is used to having nothing, and even more used to being it. Leaving no mark on the world, not one, no trace of her existence; no purpose but pain, and possessing only a part in Dreykov's wretched night ballet that had no end. Symphonies playing on and on, into infinity. Keep dancing, Natalia used to tell her, holding her face in her hands. Her touch soft at first, tender, then coarse. Shaking sense into her Anna, then, when that didn't work: fear. Keep dancing, Anechka. Do not stop. You can never, ever stop.

Anna, Annika, dares peek over the edge of the blade. She teeters here, between age seventeen and the rest of her life. All that has come before—in the cold—and all that might come after.

I had a sister, once, her new mother says, from one corner of the hotel room. She is very beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and piercing grey eyes. Her hair is red, like Natalia's. Her name was Anneke. I always thought—growing up—when I'm older, and when I'm married, I will have a daughter and name her after her: Anneke.

Annika says nothing. Amelia watches her, her hands clasped in her lap. Her nails are long, glossy black—nothing like Annika's, who has had them clipped short her entire life, like an animal whose owners are afraid might be tempted to scratch.

It's not temptation, Annika thinks. It's instinct.

Her mother calls her back to attention. Anneke is an old family spelling, though. From back home. You and I will be starting a new life together, so I think we can leave that—and Anneke, my sister—behind. Annika is a pretty name, don't you think?

This time, Annika nods. Yes, she says.

Did you have any siblings? Amelia asks.

Yes. Once, Annika says. She doesn't say her name, but she closes her eyes and sees her face: Natalia and her dark eyes, her freckles, her hair. Braided like a fairytale princess. Or a noose.

What happened to her?

Nothing, Annika says. She turns cold. You took me from her.

Something shifts in her mother's expression. Like water. Soft and sad and infinite and still. Well, my Anneke was taken from me, too.

Annika stared at the floor. She sat cross-legged on the carpet; there were other places for her to sit, but this felt right, her here with the dust motes, the furniture. Her here at her mother's feet. I'm sorry, she says, but it sounds wrong. In accent and in principle. Annika has never had to apologise for anything in her life.

It's okay, her mother says. It was a long, long time ago. And things will be different this time. You and I will be together forever. Amelia rose then, managing a smile. She came to stand in front of Annika. Annika flinched for the first time in years.

Again, that expression. Amelia offered her hand to her daughter to help her up. I won't let anyone take you from me.

Okay.

Now, why don't we watch something together? You can choose.

🕷️

BY THE TIME ANNIKA GRAPPLES OVER to the Waldorf Astoria, Alexander Sullivan is already dead. Steve unlocks the balcony doors for her and slides them open—running a hand through wind-swept hair, Annika joins him inside.

Her arrow had pierced Sullivan through the neck, sending him falling onto his bed, clutching at his throat. At the foot of the bed, Annika rose onto her tiptoes, examining the tableaux before her with her face pinched. Like blood on snow, the pillows, comforter and sheets underneath their target's body were stained bright red; to say nothing of Sullivan himself, of course. Annika loved a good nature documentary: specifically ones that focused on arctic animals, or animals that otherwise lived in the cold. Wrapped up in his stupid Waldorf Astoria bathrobe, Sullivan looked like something of a polar bear after cannibalising one of its own kind—when things got tough in the coldest days of winter—its pale fur bloodied by the kill. Eyes open, black, beady.

Unseeing, in this instance. And of course, Annika was the one feasting, but that didn't change the optics of the situation. Annika reached for Sullivan's arm, moving it to the side so she could take his laptop. It was dripping with blood.

"Towel?"

"Here." Steve retrieved one from the trolley. He'd pushed his stolen sunglasses up into his hair.

Annika wiped the laptop's chassis clean. "Thank you."

"Good shot."

"Right?" Annika dropped the towel on the floor. One of Sullivan's fingers twitched. "Usually I go for the eye, but the angle wasn't quite right."

"Uh-huh," Steve said, with the air of someone who really didn't know what else to say. Fair enough, Annika thought. He had blood on his polo—already seeping into the navy fabric, it looked black. An oil spill in open ocean. "Do we need to clean this up?"

"I don't think so. His reservation's paid up for another month, and he's been flagged as a problem guest, so if he doesn't bother the staff, they won't bother him. So, that's... whoever-comes-to-kick-him-out-of-his-room-after-check-out-in-a-month's-time's, problem."

"You seem pretty comfortable with leaving a dead body behind for someone else—most likely a civilian—to find."

"I'm sorry, is it in Avengers tradition to hold a personalised funeral for every person you kill?"

Steve scoffed. "No."

"Then there's your answer for you."

"You're not an Avenger."

"And thank God for that." Annika put the laptop on the coffee table, then started her search of the room. "Let's not rehash last night if we don't have to, okay?" She pulled open Sullivan's closet, not unlike the one in their own suite. In the middle built-in shelf was a safe. Gun-metal grey with the lock engaged. "How strong are you?"

"Why are you asking?" When Annika looked back at Steve over her shoulder, he was holding his collar up to his face. At first glance, she thought he was inspecting the body-cam. It took her a moment to realise he was more interested in its design: that gleaming, golden spider that had given the game away.

"I need you to open this safe for me. I could guess it, but... nine digits, that's ten to the power of nine possible passwords, which is roughly one billion. I think this way is quicker."

Steve lifted an eyebrow, but he didn't argue. Joining her at the open doors of the closet, he leaned over to place one hand on the shelf—to steady himself, Annika supposed—and then another on the handle of the safe. In one fluid motion, he ripped the small metal door off its hinges, its light-up screen flickering once, then twice, before it turned black with a snap and a fizzle.

He removed the safe from the wall and handed it to Annika. Beaming, she took it in both arms and brought it over to the coffee table to empty it out.

A pistol clattered onto the table, spinning out for a second then coming to a rest against the laptop. Next, cash—rubber-banded together by the ten-thousands, all U.S. currency—and finally, a set car keys for a Mercedes.

Steve tipped his head towards the gun, by Annika's side once more. "You'd think someone so paranoid would keep a gun on him, instead of locked away in a safe."

"I doubt he could shoot it. Kimber Desert Warrior, 0.45 auto... it's not the weapon a finance officer with no training, hand-to-hand or firearm, whatever, uses. Its design is optimised to make field stripping as easy as possible. I doubt our friend Sullivan here even knows what field stripping is. Or what a gun looks like, inside or out, aside from what he's seen on T.V." Annika poked the pistol with her finger, unimpressed. It was wheat-yellow and beige; maybe Annika was being an asshole, maybe she just felt strongly for her own personal preference of black, but she wasn't a fan. "He probably just had it for his own peace of mind. The strongest senses of false security are the ones we create for ourselves."

"Speaking from personal experience?"

"Maybe. You're not disagreeing with me, though."

"No, Annika, I am not." Steve held up a stack of cash. "Are we taking this with us?"

"I can't see why we shouldn't. We'd be carrying around a ridiculous amount of cash, but... better safe than sorry."

Annika left the gun and the keys on the table. She and Steve repurposed a laundry bag to move the cash between Sullivan's hotel and theirs: sewing the bag completely shut with one of the sewing kits they'd found in a clear plastic container in the housekeeping trolley. Annika ferried the bag back over the gap, flinging it onto the bed. Then, she crossed between the buildings again, giving the room once last sweep. Steve put the do-not-disturb sign back on the door handle in the outside hallway, then—from the inside—blocked the door with the trolley.

When they were both satisfied with how they'd left things (things being Sullivan, his blood finally starting to dry, dark and mud-like) they headed out onto the balcony.

"Ladies first," Steve said.

"Age before beauty," Annika nudged his shoulder.

He laughed, and went.

🕷️

THOUGH RYAN, who had been rostered on for the evening shift again, offered to come up and personally remove Grant and Anna's trash for them, the lovely couple insisted on taking it down to the basement themselves. "Please, call me Annie," Annika said into the room phone with a fake, cheerleader-like laugh. "And don't worry about it. I'll just make Grant do it. Have a good rest of your shift, hopefully I won't bother you again."

Despite what she'd said to suggest otherwise, it was Annika and Annika alone who took a black bin liner down to the basement and dumped it in the skip pushed into its furthest corner. Inside the liner: Steve's stolen sunglasses, earphones, and Waldorf Astoria housekeeping shirt. While Steve wasn't looking, she'd swiped the empty bottle of Lanson Rosé too. That, she put in the recycling instead.

When she unlocked the door to 1610, she wasn't surprised to find Steve armed-and-ready with another question.

"What do we do now?" He'd changed back into his own clothes: blue jeans again and a black Henley. Annika had returned her gloves and armguard to their case, where her bow and arrows were safely stowed away, too.

"Well, we could check out, if you want. Find somewhere to stay near James Balk's home and start drawing up our plan of attack."

Steve pursed his lips. "How much longer's our reservation here?"

"Another three nights." Annika sat on the edge of the lotus couch, watching Steve where he stood, leaning against the ensuite doorframe. "Ezra gave us a lot of breathing room to get our shit done."

"Well, we don't need to hang around for another three nights."

"I agree."

"But maybe one more couldn't hurt. I haven't been in Chicago for years."

For years. Annika laughed. "No shit."

"This area didn't used to be so nice. I was surprised to see that everything's so... fancy, now."

"That's gentrification for you."

"Don't get me started. Have you seen Brooklyn lately?"

Annika snorted. "I bet you couldn't find somewhere affordable there, even if you wanted to."

"Nope. Tony offered me a loan, but I'm not sure if he was just making fun of me or not. It's fine... I'll live there again someday." Steve said, but he didn't sound too sure.

Annika stood up, managing a smile. "Well, one more night on the Gold Coast. Why don't we go do something lame and tourist-y?"

"Like?"

"Like... a walk? I can show you all my favourite places from the times I've visited here."

"That sounds very lame and tourist-y."

"Well, you've spent the last how-long in Washington, D.C., right? Chicago can't be more boring than that."

"Being bored wasn't my biggest concern."

"C'mon. Don't you want to see the third-tallest building in the Americas?"

"That'd be... Willis Tower, right?" Despite Steve's apparent reluctance, he was already reaching for his bomber jacket and cap. "I read that online."

"It's called the Sears Tower, actually," Annika corrected him. "I mean, technically, it is called the Willis Tower now but, you know, seasoned Chicagoans—or honorary Chicagoans, such as myself—know it by its true, original name. Sears."

"Right," Steve said slowly, with a grin.

"Where's your little notebook?" Annika stepped past him to change from her yoga pants into a pair of jeans; she traded her hoodie for her shearling-lined leather jacket as well. When she returned, he had his notebook open and ready for her perusal.

Annika took it and, with a Talbott-branded pen she found on the nightstand, wrote: SEARS Tower. Beside it, she drew a tick.

"Well, we haven't actually seen it yet."

"Spiritually, I think it still counts as crossed-off."

Steve laughed as Annika closed the book, handed back to him and put away the pen. "If you say so."

"I do say so. Let's go."

In the elevator, he turned to her with that look on his face again, and Annika knew exactly what he was going to say moments before he said it. Like goddamn clockwork: "Can I ask you something?"

She made a point to roll her eyes, sound inconvenienced. "Here we go."

"Do you know Clint Barton?"

Annika laughed loudly—too loudly. "Do you think all archers know each other?"

"No, but—"

Whatever Steve said next, Annika didn't hear him. She kept laughing, all the way down to the ground floor, through the lobby, and onto the street.

AUTHOR'S  NOTES

🕸️ GRAPHIC BY eidclons 🕸️

steve and annika... the dream team 🤩🤩 i know this chapter (and its being more action-oriented) was a bit unserious, but i wasn't sure whether i wanted steve and annika's assassinations to be *difficult*, per se. they're both very competent people and i wanted to show that they could work together well so that's why this first *official* assassination (#RIPKieran) goes off pretty much without a hitch. i'm still undecided on whether future assassinations won't go the way steveanni plan, but... i'm not sure. i kind of prefer them just being very good at what they do. too good, even.

some notes about this chapter: 1) the wachter bow workshop in idaho is very much inspired by the real-life wengerd workshop. every location we've seen thus far in CF is a real place (johnny's diner, the record shop, the talbott, waldorf astoria chicago) but since wengherd is a bit too specific and a little too real i didn't want to straight-up name drop them in the fic 😭 and i'm kind of contradicting myself by mentioning it here but for anyone who's interested the wengerd workshop creates hand-made recurve bows. each bow takes up to two years to make and is, as annika says this chapter, an heirloom in its beauty and craftsmanship. just fun facts with bayports i guess!

2) we don't see much of chicago in this chapter (or the previous one) but i was given a crash course on chicago and its surrounding area by the amazing len (siIverveils) who has helped me greatly in writing the american midwest! i'm very, very australian, so every bit of help i've received—especially from my dearest len—has been deeply appreciated. though annika is a new england girl through-and-through, her masquerading as a chicagoan and her sears / willis tower fun fact is brought to you by theripster. VINDICATION!

this chapter did reveal a little more of annika's relationship with her adoptive mother, amelia. almost everything annika tells steve is a lie (with just a shred of truth) but you guys can generally trust flashbacks told from her point of view. generally... muahahahaha.

in addition to this chapter being dedicated to len and ripp, it's also dedicated to my best friend kat (elfaouly) who has made beautiful steveanni and annimac manips: and now, she's rounded out the set with some annielliott ones! LOOK AND BE BLESSED 🤍🤍🤍

as always i am spoiled by this amazing girl. thank you so much kat, i love you!

anyways hehe. i hope you guys liked this chapter! please vote, comment, let me know what you think so far! we've also reached 6k reads in the past week which is amazing!! thank you so so much!

i'll see you next week in woodstock, IL! 😚

🕷️ GRAPHIC BY soulofstaars 🕷️