Captain America, Falcon, and the X-Men sprinted after Sharon Carter as she led them down the labyrinthine halls of S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters. The facility was already in high alert, its security protocols in full effect. Red emergency lights flashed across the walls, while the blaring wail of sirens drowned out the usual hum of the facility's machinery. Automated steel doors locked down different sectors, ensuring no breach could spread too far—but something was already wrong.

The halls were a bottleneck of S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers, their weapons trained toward unseen threats, barricades hastily erected at key junctions. The tension in the air was thick with confusion and unease. These weren’t agents responding to an attack—they were waiting for something.

Sharon approached a squad of armored S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives, their uniforms bearing the insignia of internal security forces.

"Sergeant, what the hell is your team doing here?" she barked, slowing her pace but keeping her hand dangerously close to her sidearm.

The sergeant, a grizzled soldier with a reinforced combat vest, turned toward her, his rifle still trained forward. "Orders from higher up, ma’am," he responded gruffly. "We’re to hold this corridor and secure the upper levels."

Sharon’s eyes narrowed. "Who gave that order?"

The sergeant hesitated for a split second before answering. "Deputy Director Hill."

Sharon’s expression immediately hardened. "Son of a—"

Steve Rogers stepped forward, his voice edged with controlled frustration. "What is going on here, Sharon?"

Sharon took a deep breath, shaking her head. "I have no fucking idea, Steve."

Steve stared at her, his blue eyes searching for any sign of dishonesty. "I want to believe you, Sharon…"

Before he could finish his sentence, a metallic roar echoed through the corridor behind them.

A Mandroid battle unit burst through a containment blast door.

The door hissed open, clearly requiring some kind of high-level clearance—and yet, no one had authorized its release.

Sharon whipped around, her eyes wide. "What?! Who the hell gave that clearance!?"

The S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers behind the barricades exchanged uneasy glances before the sergeant finally spoke. "We—we don’t know, ma’am."

Sharon cursed under her breath. "Damnit."

The Mandroid was enormous. Nearly eight feet tall, its sleek gold and black armor gleamed under the emergency lights, its HUD visor flickering red as it scanned the room. A product of Stark-Tech repurposed for government use, these machines had been designed to fight high-tier threats.

And now one had been let loose inside a S.H.I.E.L.D. facility.

Its targeting system locked onto them.

Steve Rogers didn’t hesitate. "Sam—on me!" he barked, already sprinting forward.

Falcon vaulted over a railing, wings half-deployed, as he matched Steve’s pace. "I hate close-quarters fights," he muttered, retracting his wings to avoid snagging them on the narrow walls.

"Focus on the weak points, be aware of the corners," Steve said, his movements calculated as he analyzed the machine’s stance. "They're just machines."

"And?" Falcon responded, drawing his sidearm.

Steve unsheathed an adamantium combat knife from his belt and flipped it, catching it by the blade. With a single fluid motion, he tossed it to Sam.

"It means don't hold back."

Sam caught the blade midair, twirling it once between his fingers. "Well—not bad, Cap."

Logan smirked under his frown, his claws popping with a familiar metallic SNIKT. "Hell, now we’re talkin’."

The Mandroid charged, its servos screaming, a plasma gauntlet lighting up as it surged toward Steve. He dodged to the side just in time to avoid a devastating plasma fist strike, the energy discharge melting a chunk of the steel wall behind him.

Without breaking his stride, Steve swung his shield up, catching the next strike and redirecting the force, sending the Mandroid staggering backward.

Before the machine could regain its footing, Logan vaulted over Cap’s shoulders like a predator mid-pounce. His claws slammed into the Mandroid’s neck, piercing straight through its reinforced plating with a horrific screech of metal. Sparks erupted from the wound, but Logan wasn’t done.

With a guttural snarl, he twisted his body midair and ripped downward.

The machine shuddered violently as its torso was nearly torn in half.

With a final metallic groan, the Mandroid collapsed to its knees, its HUD flickering as it tried to reboot.

Steve didn’t hesitate. He drove his shield into the machine’s core, the impact sending a ripple of kinetic energy through its systems.

A second later, the Mandroid slumped forward, dead.

Steve took a single step back, nodding in approval.

"Nice work, Logan," he said.

Logan nodded, there was no banter, no quip, just a nod.

Sharon had already turned back toward the hall, motioning frantically. "We need to get to the hangar—now!"

Cyclops, Jean, and Falcon were already moving. Steve and Logan fell in line.

As they sprinted down the corridor, Falcon kept pace with Cap. "You think this was just an accident?" he asked, voice low.

Steve’s expression remained grim. "Unlikely, S.H.I.E.L.D employs the best in the country, there's something wrong here."

Cyclops, running just behind them, frowned. "If someone has access to S.H.I.E.L.D. security, that means—"

"It's more shit we don't know." Logan finished, scowling.

Falcon tightened his grip around his knife. "Great."

Sharon pulled ahead, leading them through another security checkpoint. The blast doors were already open—but not from the inside. They had been remotely accessed.

"Sharon," Steve said, his tone demanding answers. "Who is giving clearance?"

Sharon shook her head as they entered a long tunnel leading to the hangar. "I don’t know, I just don't know."

The tunnel ahead was eerily empty.

Too empty.

Jean suddenly stiffened. "Wait," she said, throwing a hand up. "Something’s—"

Before she could finish, the entire tunnel rumbled.

The sound of metal grinding against metal echoed through the air.

And then—the walls broke open.

From either side of the tunnel, three more Mandroids emerged, their HUD visors glowing a deep crimson. Their plasma gauntlets hummed to life.

Cyclops lowered his visor. "Jean," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "Let's handle this, you and I."

Jean backed up, her hands raised defensively, but her smile eased the tension. "Forever and always."

The Mandroids didn’t wait.

They attacked.

Two charged at Steve and Falcon. The third went straight for Logan.

Steve met the first blow head-on, raising his shield just as a plasma punch connected. The force sent him skidding backward, but he kept his footing.

Falcon ducked low, dodging a second energy blast and vaulting over a railing. His wings snapped open mid-air, flipping backward to gain distance.

Logan?

Logan didn’t move. He let the Mandroid hit him.

Or at least it registered as a hit.

Instead, Logan sidestepped the strike and gave the middle claw, the unsuspecting robot punched straight through, its arm being ripped in half by the adamantium blade.

He cracked his neck. Then he grinned.

"Watch whaddya punch, bub"

Logan jumped on the back of the Mandroid, ripping it's metal insides with animalistic brutality.

When he was done he backflipped from the hull of the fallen robot, landing on his feet, a smirk to his face.

As the dust settled from the first wave of fallen Mandroids, a deep mechanical hum reverberated through the tunnel. Then, more came.

Jean Grey sensed them before she saw them.

Her emerald eyes snapped up as she felt the weight of incoming mechanical minds pressing against the edges of her telepathy—a cold, calculated presence devoid of emotion but brimming with raw, uncompromising intent.

"Incoming!" she shouted.

The emergency lights overhead flickered wildly as ten more Mandroids emerged from the distant shadows of the tunnel. They moved with unnerving precision, their metal feet clanking against the reinforced floor in synchronized rhythm.

Jean could feel the sheer weight of them, the force in their steps, the synchronized targeting systems locking onto her team.

"Not today."

Her eyes flared red.

She thrust out both hands, palms wide, and a pulse of telekinetic force surged outward like a shockwave.

The Mandroids shuddered violently, their servos screeching in protest as they were suddenly yanked off their feet.

One by one, they slammed into each other, forming a grotesque metallic heap as Jean forced them into a tangled pile. Limbs locked, torsos twisted, their once-fluid movements now nothing more than a chaotic mess of steel and sparking circuits.

For a split second, the battlefield was still.

Then—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

A series of small turret compartments suddenly opened along their armored backs, revealing hidden autocannons.

Jean's breath hitched.

Before anyone could react, a blinding red beam split the air.

FWOOOOOM!

A precise, devastating optic blast tore through the entire cluster, cutting across the tunnel like a razor-sharp guillotine.

The Mandroids were cleaved in half.

Their turrets barely had time to deploy fully before they collapsed in a heap of burnt, severed metal, their internal wiring exposed, their reinforced plating melted clean through. Sparks hissed as their targeting systems flickered and died.

Cyclops lowered his visor.

His face remained calm—but his breathing was heavy. Precise control like that took effort.

Beside him, Sharon Carter's head snapped toward Captain America. Her concerned gaze spoke volumes without uttering a word.

Steve understood. The sheer power Cyclops had just demonstrated wasn’t something to take lightly.

"How many more?" Cyclops asked, his voice level, but firm.

Sharon hesitated for a moment, before shaking her head. "Not many."

Steve stepped forward, moving carefully over the wreckage of the Mandroids. Falcon followed close behind, his adamantium combat knife still in hand.

As they advanced, Steve's eyes narrowed.

Something wasn't right.

He crouched down next to the pile of fallen Mandroids, inspecting their damaged interfaces, their exposed circuitry.

"Do they seem hijacked, Sam?" he asked.

Falcon knelt beside him, running a gloved hand over one of the now-lifeless bodies. His keen eyes scanned over their optical sensors, their servo motors, their hardened exoskeletons. He tapped a small button on his gauntlet, activating a brief diagnostic scan.

There was a long pause.

Then, finally, Falcon shook his head. "Can't tell." His voice was careful. "They appear normal, Cap."

Steve clenched his jaw. "I don't like the sound of that."

Something was off. He could feel it.

A bit behind them, Cyclops exhaled sharply and turned toward Jean. His expression, though still the picture of discipline, softened ever so slightly.

"Thanks, Jean." His voice was low, but genuine. "Outstanding work, as always."

Jean, still catching her breath from the intense exertion of her telekinetic onslaught, allowed herself a faint smile. She reached up, lightly rubbing her temples as she steadied herself.

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"I had the best of help." she murmured.

Cyclops actually smiled—small, barely noticeable, but it was there.

Then, a thought occurred to him.

"Now Logan…"

He turned his head, expecting to see Wolverine standing somewhere nearby, impatiently tapping his claws against the wall.

But he wasn’t there.

Cyclops' expression darkened.

"Logan?"

Jean's brows furrowed as well, her telepathy instinctively reaching outward—but she found nothing. Just the lingering, faint imprint of Wolverine’s presence… but it was already fading.

She turned, her voice rising. "Where is he?"

Falcon let out an irritated huff.

"Damnit." He ran a hand over his face. "Guy’s worse than a stray dog."

"I'll go after him," Captain America said, already moving toward one of the branching corridors.

Cyclops whirled around to face him.

"We should go," he said firmly.

Steve paused mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder. "There are more Mandroids."

Cyclops' visor glinted under the dim lighting. His stance remained rigid, his arms crossed over his chest.

"This is S.H.I.E.L.D.'s problem, not ours."

Jean, standing just behind him, reached out and gently squeezed his arm.

"Scott." Her voice was soft, but steady.

Cyclops turned his head slightly toward her.

"We agreed to help, Scott." she reminded him.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, finally, Scott nodded. His grip on his own arms relaxed, just slightly.

"Fine." His voice was gruff, reluctant—but he meant it. "Me and Jean will help S.H.I.E.L.D. But we need to know everything about this, Captain."

Steve gave him a solemn nod. "Don't worry, Summers." His voice was firm. "I'll dig as much as I can."

He turned to Sam.

"Sam, follow them. I’ll go after Logan."

Sam's expression tightened. He wasn't thrilled about splitting up—but he trusted Steve.

"Fine, Cap." He exhaled, rolling his shoulders before nodding toward Jean and Scott. "Let’s move."

Scott gave Steve one last look, before turning toward the next corridor leading deeper into S.H.I.E.L.D. territory.

Jean followed without hesitation.

Sharon, who had been quietly observing, sighed and adjusted the grip on her sidearm. "This whole day’s turning into a goddamn disaster," she muttered.

Steve gave her a small, weary smirk. "It will be over son, Sharon."

Sharon smirked, her eyes landing back on Captain America. "With you on it, I'm sure."

Then he turned and sprinted down the hall, disappearing into the dimly lit tunnels of S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters in pursuit of Wolverine.

----------------------------------------

Wolverine moved swiftly, his boots silent against the cold, polished floors of S.H.I.E.L.D. Headquarters as he stalked through the dimly lit corridors. The red emergency lights flickered erratically overhead, casting sharp, jagged shadows against the steel walls.

But Logan wasn’t focused on the lights.

He was focused on the smell.

It wasn't the usual stale scent of metal, sweat, and gun oil that hung in the air of every secure facility he'd ever broken into—or, in this case, was currently helping defend.

This was different.

This was blood.

Fresh.

And it was coming from the interrogation area.

"That ain't right," Logan thought, his instincts flaring like a live wire. His nostrils flared slightly as he picked up the scent, his sharp eyes darting down the empty hallway ahead.

The alarms were still blaring, the base in total lockdown, yet the blood wasn’t coming from the hangar, where the main firefight had been.

It was coming from back here.

From Denti’s holding cell.

Something was happening.

Logan stayed low, his body moving with silent precision as he weaved through the hallways. Armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were moving toward the hangar bay, reinforcing the barricades, holding the line against more rogue Mandroids.

They didn’t see him.

Didn’t hear him.

And he made sure they didn’t.

But then, just ahead, two figures moved against the flow of traffic—two S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives, their movements calculated rather than rushed.

They weren’t heading for the hangar.

They were heading for the opposite side of the building.

Straight toward Denti’s cell.

"Goddamn it."

Logan’s mind pieced it together instantly. Too convenient. Too neat. The attack, the chaos, the sudden appearance of hostile Mandroids at just the right time—all of it had given someone the perfect window to clean up loose ends.

And Carl Denti?

He was the biggest loose end in this whole damn mess.

Logan slipped into the shadows, trailing the agents without a sound. His heightened senses honed in on every detail—the creak of their boots, the slight shifting of their gear, the faint whisper of their hushed conversation.

Then, as he neared the interrogation area, the stench of fresh blood hit him like a brick.

There.

Just around the corner, sprawled near the entrance to the holding cells, was a dead S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

A single, neatly placed bullet wound to the head.

No struggle.

Execution-style.

Logan’s jaw clenched, his adamantium claws twitching beneath his skin, waiting to be unsheathed.

He snarled low under his breath.

"Knew it."

Ahead, the two agents reached Denti’s cell. They stepped inside.

Logan inched forward, staying low, his ears tuned to their voices.

"So you're just gonna betray us, Carl?"

"I'm fucked, can't you see!?"

"You're a coward, Carl."

There was a pause.

Then—

"Y'know what—we should just get rid of you before you send any of us to jail."

Logan shook his head, exhaling through his nose.

"I can't believe I'm savin' this fucker."

Then he moved.

Without hesitation, his claws shot out.

SNIKT!

With three quick thrusts, his claws sank deep into the reinforced steel door of the interrogation room, punching through with terrifying ease.

Inside, the two agents whirled around, their weapons half-raised—but before they could react, Logan’s claws sliced downward, ripping the door apart.

It burst open violently, the reinforced metal slamming against the wall like a battering ram.

And then Logan was inside.

A whirlwind of fury and muscle, he lunged.

The first agent barely had time to react before Logan's claws found his thigh.

"AAARRRGHHH!" The agent screamed as Logan tore through muscle, sinew, and bone, his leg separating completely from his body with a sickening SCHLIKKT

The agent collapsed, blood gushing from the ruined stump where his leg had once been. His eyes bulged with shock, his mouth hanging open in a soundless scream as the pain caught up to him.

"Jesus Christ!" the second agent shouted, raising his weapon in a panic.

The first agent, through sheer agony-fueled instinct, tried to lift his sidearm, his trembling hand struggling to aim at Logan.

But Logan was already there.

SNAKT

Three claws sank into his forearm before he could even pull the trigger.

"AAAARGHHH!"

With a savage pull, Logan dragged the blades outward, splitting the agent’s forearm into three jagged, mangled pieces.

The man’s scream turned into a choking sob, his shattered limb hanging uselessly at his side.

Logan bared his teeth in a snarl.

"Try shootin' now, boy."

The second agent, face white with terror, emptied his entire magazine into Logan’s chest at point-blank range.

The bullets punched through his uniform, one after another, tearing through muscle and flesh, lodging themselves deep into his organs.

Logan didn’t flinch.

He stood there, towering over the man, unmoving.

His body absorbed every round, the pain barely registering as his regenerative factor kicked in.

The agent’s gun clicked empty.

Then, one by one, the spent bullets began to drop from Logan’s chest wounds, clinking against the floor.

Tiny, misshapen lumps of fully expanded hollow-point rounds.

Logan glanced down at them.

"Hollow-points, huh?" He grinned, cracking his neck. "Neat."

The agent’s hands shook as he scrambled to reload.

"You with the FoH, bub?" Logan asked, his voice low, dangerous.

The agent scowled through his fear. "Fuck you, freak."

Logan smirked. "Yeah, thought so."

The agent’s trembling fingers finally gripped a new magazine—but before he could reload, Logan closed the distance.

Faster than the man could register—

Just one claw came out.

The agent screamed as Logan drove one claw into his left eye socket.

His head snapped back violently, his body jerking as his vision was swallowed in white-hot agony.

Logan twisted the blades slowly.

"Now ya can be just like Ol' Nick," he growled.

Behind him, chained to the table, Carl Denti watched in mute horror, his face twisted in disgust.

"Freak," Denti muttered under his breath.

Logan heard it.

And he ignored it.

He turned his attention back to the agent, ready to pop his other eye, when—

"Logan!"

The sharp, commanding voice cut through the room.

Logan’s head snapped toward the doorframe.

Captain America stood there.

His silhouette framed by the flickering red emergency lights, his blue eyes locked onto Logan’s with a look of pure disapproval.

He moved fast.

Before Logan could react, Cap’s strong hands gripped him by the shoulders and wrenched him away from the half-blind agent.

"Don't ya dare, Rogers." Logan snarled, twisting under the grip.

Steve held firm.

"Stop this madness." His voice was low, steady—but commanding.

Logan’s body tensed.

His claws shrank back, retreating into his knuckles with a soft SNIKT.

"Tch." Logan pulled himself free and moved away, stepping toward the metal table where Denti still sat, shackled.

Denti’s face twisted in disgust.

Logan plopped himself onto the table, arms crossed, his breathing calm but measured.

His sharp blue eyes flicked toward the half-blind agent, who lay shuddering on the ground, one eye socket an empty, ruined mess.

His lips curled into a smirk.

Captain America held the agent by the collar, his grip like iron. The man’s body was limp, barely staying conscious, his lips bloodied from the hard right cross Steve had delivered.

His blue eyes burned as he stared the agent down, his voice low and controlled, but filled with restrained fury.

"I will give you one chance to explain yourself."

"What is going on here, soldier?"

The agent, barely able to focus, spat blood onto the cold steel floor, his expression curling into a sneer. His breathing was ragged, but his hatred was unwavering.

"You… you have betrayed humanity, Captain."

The words landed like a slap to the face—but Steve didn't flinch. Instead, his jaw tightened, and without another moment’s hesitation, he sent a crushing punch to the man’s jaw.

The agent’s head snapped back from the force, his body going limp as he slumped unconscious onto the floor.

Steve exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking out his fist as he turned back to Carl Denti, still restrained in his seat. The X-Cutioner’s eyes flicked from the unconscious man at Steve’s feet back to the Captain’s hardened gaze.

“They're here to get us out,” Denti muttered, his tone unreadable. “Didn’t take lightly the idea of me helping you, Captain. They wanted me dead.”

"Logan saved your life," Steve said, stepping toward the table, his voice like granite. "Think about it, Denti."

Denti snorted bitterly, rubbing his wrists where the shackles had held him. "Don’t make me laugh, Captain. You saved my life. He was gonna gut me."

Logan's teeth ground audibly, his eyes locked on Denti like a predator debating whether to pounce. His hands curled into white-knuckled fists, his claws itching just beneath the surface.

"I should just rip ya from the inside," Logan muttered, his tone filled with barely contained rage. His body tensed, every muscle coiled tight with anger and disgust.

Denti didn’t flinch. He held Logan’s glare, his lips twisting into a cruel smirk.

"Then you have no testimony, mutant."

The word dripped with disdain, and the tension in the room became thick enough to cut with a blade.

A long silence.

Logan’s nostrils flared. His claws almost burst forth.

But before things could escalate, Steve cut through the tension like a blade.

"Enough."

The word held authority, a weight so heavy even Logan exhaled through his nose, letting some of his aggression simmer down.

"The promise holds, Cap," Denti said after a beat, his tone slightly softer but no less self-serving. "Get my plea deal, and I'll talk."

Steve held his gaze for a long moment, searching for any sign of deception, before giving a slow, reluctant nod.

Logan just huffed in frustration, rolling his shoulders and looking away.

Then Steve's attention snapped to another priority.

"What about the Leper Queen?"

Denti shrugged, shaking his head. "No idea."

Steve’s stomach twisted with the sudden realization.

"Damn it."

His head turned toward the door, his entire body shifting into high alert.

"We need to check her cell. Now."

They moved quickly, urgency in every step, their boots echoing off the facility’s cold, metallic floors. The alarms still blared, but their minds were focused on one thing.

When they reached Clara Page’s holding cell, Steve’s gut dropped.

She was gone.

The chair was empty.

Her cuffs lay discarded on the table, open—the key still inside the lock.

Steve inhaled sharply, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of struggle. But there was none. No blood. No forced exit.

This wasn’t a breakout.

Someone had let her go.

Captain America immediately reached for his comms.

"Falcon, I need you in Denti's interrogation room now."

There was a brief pause before Sam’s voice crackled through the radio.

"Understood, Captain."

Steve clenched his jaw. He turned to Logan, who was already scowling, his claws halfway unsheathed.

"Damn it," Logan snarled, his nose twitching as he took in the air. Then, suddenly—his entire body went rigid.

"Wait," he muttered, nostrils flaring.

"I can smell it."

Steve’s head snapped toward him. "Smell what?"

"Her."

Logan’s eyes sharpened, his face grim.

"Yeah," he confirmed, his voice lowering into a growl. "She walked through here. Recently."

Without waiting, Logan bolted out the door, his movements quick and precise, following the scent trail like a bloodhound.

They rushed through the base, past rows of locked-down corridors, past the secured holding areas, past the barricaded guards who barely gave them a glance as they stormed through.

Logan was silent, moving purely on instinct, his boots barely making a sound as he led them deeper into the facility.

The scent trail was getting stronger.

"We’re close," Logan muttered.

Steve stayed sharp, watching every corner, every shadow, every blind spot. He didn't trust anything about this situation.

Then, suddenly—

Logan stopped.

His entire posture stiffened.

They had reached an emergency exit.

Steve's eyes flicked to the heavy security doors—they had been propped open, the locks overridden. Sunlight spilled into the dim corridor, harsh and bright compared to the artificial lights inside.

Beyond the door, the afternoon sun of Washington, D.C. bathed the empty pavement outside in a golden glow.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. emergency exit opened onto a large vehicle bay, a stretch of reinforced pavement leading to a series of garages, security checkpoints, and a fenced-off lot filled with armored transport vehicles.

Beyond the open hangar doors, the sun bore down on the chaotic scene before them.

There were guards. There were trucks. There was a convoy.

And at the center of it, surrounded by a flurry of motion, was Clara Page—the Leper Queen.

Logan’s eyes narrowed as he took in the sight, his nostrils flaring.

She was being escorted by a squad of men in black combat gear, their uniforms lacking the standard S.H.I.E.L.D. insignia.

Something was wrong.

They weren’t just leading her to another secured section of the base.

They were loading her into a heavily armored S.H.I.E.L.D. transport truck.

The reinforced prisoner transport vehicle—its hull lined with titanium plating, thick bulletproof windows, and a reinforced door with biometric locking mechanisms—was something meant for high-value extractions, not just simple prisoner transfers.

The second Steve saw the truck, his stomach dropped.

"This isn’t right."

The Leper Queen didn’t look restrained—at least, not in the way she should have been. The guards moved efficiently, but they weren’t just following standard security protocol.

They were moving fast.

Too fast.

Like they weren’t supposed to be seen.

Like they weren’t supposed to be here.

Then, from the opposite end of the lot—

Gunfire.

Automatic bursts.

Muzzle flashes lit up the shadows between two buildings as a separate S.H.I.E.L.D. security team engaged in a firefight.

The sharp cracks of rifles mixed with the rapid thuds of boots hitting the pavement. S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives were pinned down, trading fire with unknown gunmen dressed in identical black combat uniforms.

Logan growled.

"This stinks, Rogers."

Steve gritted his teeth, scanning the situation. His instincts screamed that this wasn’t just an internal S.H.I.E.L.D. operation gone rogue.

This was an extraction.

A cover-up.

And the Leper Queen was being taken out of here, now.

The convoy was already starting to pull out.

The transport truck carrying the Leper Queen was the lead vehicle, followed by two armored SUVs and a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. tactical support Humvees—the kind usually assigned to high-risk operations.

"Someone inside the agency planned this," Steve muttered.

Then, suddenly—from the left, tires screeched.

A black jeep barreled into the open, kicking up dust as it slid to a stop just a few feet from them.

Behind the wheel—John Walker.

U.S. Agent.

Wearing his standard black tactical suit, his expression was as hard as granite, his jaw clenched as he snapped his head toward Steve and Logan.

"Walker?!" Steve barked.

Walker’s gloved hands tightened on the wheel as he looked toward the convoy, his eyes scanning the unfolding chaos.

"Cap, House Cat—get in."

Logan’s head snapped toward him, scowling. "Who ya callin' House Cat, you bootlickin'—"

"Get. In. The damn. Jeep." Walker cut him off, his voice sharp.

Steve didn’t hesitate.

He vaulted into the passenger seat, his combat boots landing firmly on the metal floor.

Logan let out a low growl but followed, climbing into the backseat with an annoyed grunt, his claws still partially unsheathed.

Walker threw the jeep into gear and slammed his foot onto the accelerator.

The tires screeched, sending up a spray of loose gravel as the vehicle lurched forward.

Steve’s grip tightened on the dashboard as Walker took off, weaving through the S.H.I.E.L.D. lot, dodging abandoned barricades and scattered personnel as they closed in on the convoy.

Steve’s voice was sharp, demanding.

"What the hell is going on, Walker?!"

Walker’s eyes flicked toward him, but his grip on the wheel didn’t loosen.

"Problematic story, Cap. Tell you later."

"Now, Walker."

"Trust me, Steve. You want to stop this convoy, or do you wanna sit here and chit-chat?"

Steve’s jaw clenched. Walker’s usual cocky arrogance grated on him, but he could tell—whatever Walker knew, it was bad.

For now, getting to that truck was priority one.

"Fine." Steve exhaled. "But you and I are going to have a long talk after this."

Walker just smirked, gripping the wheel tighter.

"Sure thing, Captain America."

They accelerated, the engine roaring as the jeep gained on the convoy.

The transport truck was already nearing the outer security checkpoint, its turrets unmanned—suggesting whoever was in charge of this operation wasn't expecting pursuit.

Then—

A hatch on the transport truck's roof swung open.

A gunner emerged, hauling up an M249 SAW—the belt-fed, fully automatic light machine gun.

The gunner locked eyes on them.

And then—the barrel began to spin.

"Shit!" Logan snarled.

The gunfire erupted, sending a hail of bullets toward them.

Rounds ripped through the air, tearing into the pavement around them. A storm of brass clattered onto the road as the SAW operator unleashed hell.

Walker yanked the wheel hard right, dodging the first volley of gunfire as bullets tore into the pavement behind them.

"These guys aren't S.H.I.E.L.D." Steve muttered, his eyes narrowing.

"I hope so too, Captain." Walker shot back, his tone respectful as he veered the jeep sideways to avoid another barrage of rounds.

Steve’s expression was hard, calculating.

"They don’t move like S.H.I.E.L.D. agents." His voice was firm, absolute. "They’re trained, but this isn’t standard. This is an extraction team."

Logan let out a low growl from the back seat.

"Too hard to believe your precious agency is rotten, bub?" he scoffed.

Steve didn’t rise to the bait. He knew S.H.I.E.L.D. had its problems—but this was something bigger.

"Get closer, Walker!" Logan barked.

Walker snorted. "What, I don’t take orders from Canadians—"

"Do it, Walker!" Steve snapped.

"Yes, Captain!" Walker gritted his teeth, yanking the wheel hard left, pulling the jeep alongside the transport truck.

The SAW gunner adjusted, preparing to fire again.

Logan crouched, his muscles coiling like a spring.

The second the jeep lined up, he launched himself into the air.

His adamantium claws flashed in the sunlight as he landed hard onto the top of the armored truck—his snarl lost in the roar of gunfire.

And just like that—Logan was in the fight. And soon enough chaos would ensue in the streets of D.C.