"Do you even hear yourself? What the hell kind of 'custom' is that?!"
Steve stared in disbelief, his earlier praise of Hydra's so-called professionalism already crumbling to dust.
Professional? Professional my ass!
What kind of clowns were these people, thinking themselves actual local warlords?
Rumlow's expression was just as speechless. His eyes told Steve: There's nothing we can do. Hydra recruits heavily from the locals to blend in, so they inevitably bring all their little 'traditions' with them.
Steve dragged a hand down his face and waved impatiently.
"Enough. Get out. We'll handle this ourselves."
The guards clearly realized they'd messed up and scurried away.
—
When they were gone, Steve grabbed the white headscarf of the prisoner dangling by his chains, forcing the man's battered face up.
"Talk. Where is Tony Stark?"
But instead of caving, the man—beaten half to death, had been waiting for this moment. His cheeks bulged like a toad's, and the instant his head lifted, he spat a mouthful of phlegm he'd been storing who-knew-how-long—straight at Steve, like a damn Bulbasaur spraying Water Gun!
But Steve was no ordinary man. He was Captain America—a superhuman with a physique ranked at 9, reflexes sharper than lightning.
He didn't underestimate. With a sidestep at 0.01 seconds, he cleanly avoided the disgusting projectile without so much as a drop on him.
The world's martial arts are all about speed. Dodge fast enough, and you'll never get hit. Hahaha!
Of course, he dodged… but poor Rumlow, standing right behind him, took the full blast to the face.
Wiping a thick, bloody smear of phlegm off his cheeks, Rumlow trembled with fury and yanked out his gun, ready to blow the bastard's brains out.
"You son of a bitch! If I don't kill you today, I'll stop calling myself Crossbones. Hell, I'll rename myself Chicken-Bones just to curse your mother!"
Steve quickly pressed down Rumlow's arm before he could fire, soothing him:
"Easy there, old Rum. He's our only lead on Stark. And besides—he didn't really hurt you. Big-picture thinking, yeah? Calm down."
"Big picture, my ass! He didn't spit on your face, of course you're calm! You try it!"
Seething, Rumlow raised his slime-coated hand, about to smear it across Steve's face.
Steve instantly shoved him away with a kick, sending him sprawling into the Special Ops team.
"Hold your vice-captain down! Until I give the order, no one lets him up!"
The squad, though disgusted, didn't dare disobey Hydra's rigid chain of command. They pinned Rumlow down firmly, even as his sticky mess smeared across their own hands.
Steve turned back to the Ten Rings prisoner before Rumlow could break free.
"You saw it yourself. That little spit stunt already enraged him. If you end up in his hands, you won't even get the mercy of a quick death."
He softened his tone.
"Now, I'm sure you recognize me. I'm Captain America. If you tell me where Tony Stark is being held, I swear on my honor—I won't kill you. How about that?"
Stick and carrot. The man, resigned to death, blinked in stunned hesitation.
To live—who wouldn't choose that? And Captain America's word… surely that was trustworthy.
Without torture, without threats, Steve's sheer presence was enough to break him. The man gave up Stark's location.
Once Steve noted down the coordinates, his friendly expression vanished, replaced with cold indifference. He turned to Rumlow.
"Release him. He's yours now."
The prisoner froze. Then the realization struck, and he cursed wildly:
"You liar! You shameless son of a—%*@#&…"
Steve ignored him. While the man's curses rattled on behind him, Steve strolled out with his men at ease.
Waiting outside was Hydra's number one attack dog—Crossbones Rumlow Brock, still trembling with rage.
Captain America breaking his promise? Not Hydra's problem.
Ten minutes later, Rumlow returned, drenched in blood.
No need to ask whose. Judging by the sheer volume splattered on him, that poor bastard was already chatting with God.
…Well, maybe not God. Out here, it was more likely Mephisto or the Goddess of Death.
Tsk, tsk. What a miserable way to go.
Moral of the story: don't spit where you shouldn't, or you'll pay for it.
—
With coordinates in hand, things moved quickly. The Quinjet took off, and within the hour they'd found the mountain cave where the Ten Rings were hiding Stark.
Steve knew: it was time for the protagonist to step in.
As they neared, he ordered the rear hatch opened and peered down at the hundreds of meters to the ground.
"Rumlow, take the squad and clear out the Ten Rings trash on the perimeter. The hostage inside is mine to rescue. Until I say otherwise, none of you are to enter."
"Understood!" Rumlow had worked with Steve enough to know the drill. Steve preferred fighting alone. The team's job was to mop up stragglers.
The reason was simple: the [System] only recognized missions Steve personally completed. Rewards and strengthening points wouldn't trigger otherwise. Especially for a high-value target like Tony Stark, there was no way he'd let anyone else steal it.
(Later, once he ranked higher, missions completed by his subordinates would count toward his own progress.)
The hatch opened fully. Without so much as a parachute, Steve leapt.
"Yeeeeee-haaa!"
His excited howl echoed through the air as he plummeted.
The new recruit beside Rumlow blinked. "Uh… Captain Rogers… did he bring a parachute?"
Rumlow smirked. "No. He doesn't need one."
Even the old Cap could jump from hundreds of meters into the sea—or straight onto land. With his enhanced body now, what was a few hundred meters?
He might as well have been walking.
With a thunderous crash, Steve landed shield-first, smashing a Ten Rings soldier into pulp before the man even realized what fell from the sky.
Rolling smoothly to absorb the impact, Steve charged forward. With a flick of his arm, the shield flew—slicing through the necks of several guards in a perfect, utterly unscientific arc.
The shield struck the cliff wall, spun once… and returned neatly to his hand.
Utterly outrageous.