Approaching the airfield, I see it barren, abandoned—as it should be. This place is technically still in use, just not in any official capacity. The airstrip straddles the border between Romania and Serbia, placing it in a kind of legal no man's land. A grey area. A Deadman's land.
And like most grey areas, it became exactly what everyone hoped it wouldn't be: a smuggling hub. Not a flashy one, though, strictly for transportation. Quiet. No unnecessary heat that might attract attention from either country's authorities.
I stay low, moving through the overgrown grass, careful not to be seen. This isn't ideal, but even with my fairly good passport, I'd rather not risk showing up on a camera or being flagged mid-flight.
Best way to move a criminal? Use other criminals.
When not actively in use, there are usually a few emergency biplanes and helicopters stored here meant only for certain members of organized crime when they need to get the hell out of Dodge. I only know about it because it was used to smuggle me to Madripoor way back when.
I circle around to the back of the hangar and peek through the smudged, dusty glass. Inside, a small biplane rests like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. Hopefully, it's fueled up. Otherwise, this entire plan crashes before it even takes off.
A short laugh escapes me.
"For someone who said they were prepared, I seem to be relying on a lot of hopes and prayers lately."
Biggest one of all: that flying a plane is as easy as the internet makes it look.
I don't actually know how to fly one. Not properly. Everything I know is pieced together from online research, second-hand observation, and sheer desperation.
The door into the hanger is chained shut. Of course. And I've got nothing to pick the lock with.
Looking up, I spot a broken upper window. There's a fuel barrel nearby, I try to drag it over to climb up, but yeah, no, that thing's not going anywhere.
"Jesus, where's a super soldier when I need one?"
So, I climb. Or... I don't.
I look left, look right.
Fuck it
I grab a nearby rock and hurl it at the lower window.
Shatter.
The sound rings out, way too loud. Out here, in the quiet, it carries. I hope I was right that no one's around.
Carefully stepping over the broken glass, I make my way inside. Now comes the real problem—getting this large hangar door open and flying a damn plane.
To my absolute shock, the hangar door isn't locked.
"Damn it," I mutter. "Didn't need to smash that window at all. Just had to open the biggest door here."
I climb aboard the plane. It looks… complicated. This is such a bad idea. But it's faster. I know where I'm landing in Portugal, and it beats the hell out of taking the train and bus for days.
Then I spot something in the back—just a glimpse of it.
"What the hell?"
Cautiously, I crawl back into the storage compartment and grab hold of a large duffel bag. I unzip it like it might explode.
It's a go bag.
My guess? Someone's coming for this plane—soon. It's fueled up and ready because it was meant to be used.
So, I need to get out of here before they arrive.
I slide the bag aside, hop back into the pilot's seat, and fire it up. I remember just enough: full throttle, flip the right switches, I remember them based on position, not function and when you hit sixty-something knots, pull hard and hope it lifts off.
Miraculously, it works.
Once airborne, I keep the plane below 15,000 feet. I'll figure out landing later. Honestly, it's going smoother than expected—aside from a few dead birds I wacked and one or two minor panic attacks.
Four hours in the air. I use the time to mentally prep. I plan to land in the Gulf of Cadiz, right next to Faro, then take a train to Lisbon.
That's my final destination. From there, I'll figure out how to find Bucky.
The landing... well, it wasn't perfect. Might've nearly pissed myself. Definitely gave myself a minor concussion slamming my head into the seat when I hit the water. I now have a new found respect for Captain America's water landing from back in the day.
I run the plane onto the beach, near a few older couples watching the sunset. Hopefully they mind their business—Portugal's supposed to be good for that.
I grab my backpack and the go bag I "borrowed" flip my hood up, and walk away. Hopefully the people I took the plane from won't find it too quickly. I didn't land where I was staying on purpose.
I make my way to the nearest bus stop, dropping onto the bench, legs sore and trembling. The sea breeze brushes across my face, tickling my senses. The sky's drenched in shades of orange and red.
I get lost in a memory again.
We'd watched the sunset together a few times—Bucky and I. The time that pushes itself to the forefront of my mind was when I had just left a tutoring session, and he was crouched near a telephone pole, toying with something in his gloved right hand.
"What's that?" I asked, walking over.
"A cat," he said. "Think he might be lost."
It was a little orange tabby, pawing at his leather glove, then grabbing at his bootlace like it was a toy, unknotting it as it pulled on it.
"There are a lot of strays around here," I told him. "Middle school kids feed them, so they gather."
He stood, gently swinging his boot so the lace dragged, the cat trailing it like prey. Then, suddenly, the cat perked up—gone in a flash into the bushes.
"Maybe his friends called him," I joked.
"Maybe," he replied, tying the lace again. Then he held out his right hand. "Ready?"
"Yeah. Let's go back."
As we walked, every now and then, we caught slivers of the sunset through gaps in the buildings.
It was peaceful.
The flashing headlights of an approaching bus pull me back to the present. It's about to be dark.
"Onward, I guess."
I push myself up from the bench, duffel in hand, backpack on my back secured across my chest. I board and sink into the seat, clutching the duffel against me. My eyes are heavy, my body sore.
As I lean against the window, staring out into the dark, I feel myself drifting into that darkness, being swallowed whole.
I hope I see Bucky there.
My last thought before I disappear into the quiet of sleep.