Without Hydra even realizing it, Marcus had already sold out many of their deepest secrets. Just as he predicted, Nick Fury would soon declare open war on Hydra—while Marcus, watching from the shadows, would reap the rewards of their inevitable bloodshed.
But there was another layer to his plan.
In the Eastern European nation of Sokovia, two extremely valuable mutants were under Hydra's control—Quicksilver and the Scarlet Witch. If Marcus could join S.H.I.E.L.D.'s assault on that facility, he might find a way to infect both of them and bring them under his command. That was the real reason he'd handed Fury that location.
For now, however, earning S.H.I.E.L.D.'s trust came first—a simple task for someone who knew Hydra's inner workings as well as Marcus did.
---
Marcus and Captain America waited outside the villa in silence while Fury and Tony finished their private discussion inside.
At some point, Marcus noticed something strange. The number of "passersby" on the nearby country road had increased. Occasionally, a police car rolled past the garden, its siren off. For such a remote area, this was highly unusual.
Even stranger—the so-called pedestrians never looked toward the house. Their eyes deliberately avoided it, as if they were trying to make it too obvious that they weren't paying attention.
Marcus's gaze lingered on one man in particular—a fit young "civilian" strolling casually by, though beads of sweat glistened at his temple.
Special forces, Marcus realized immediately. They're not civilians—they're Hydra assassins.
He lightly tapped Captain America's chest and said meaningfully, "Captain, looks like we've got company."
Before Rogers could even respond, Marcus turned calmly on his heel, re-entered the villa, and addressed Fury and Tony as if nothing were wrong.
"Nick," he said casually, "I think you have some guests outside. Did you happen to invite them?"
(Translation: the people coming here are armed and ready to kill you.)
Fury, sharp as ever, immediately understood the hidden warning. Without breaking composure, he pulled out his phone and began dialing a number, replying with a faint smile, "Yes, I did invite a few people. They should be arriving any moment now."
(Translation: I've called for backup. Reinforcements are on the way—just hold out.)
Tony and Rogers hadn't yet realized the danger. They didn't grasp that Marcus and Fury were buying time, speaking in code to avoid tipping off the assassins outside.
Meanwhile, in the villa's blind spots, two figures moved into position—the Winter Soldier and Crossbones, each leading teams of Hydra operatives disguised as civilians. Under their command, the special forces were tightening their perimeter, ready to strike.
Marcus weighed his options.
He had no real reason to involve himself in a direct firefight between Hydra and S.H.I.E.L.D.—in fact, it would've been wiser to vanish before the bullets started flying. But Hydra's operatives never left witnesses, and he still needed Fury alive to keep S.H.I.E.L.D. functioning long enough to stall them.
For now, he'd have to take a side.
"Tony," Marcus said, holding out his hand, "give me the antidote for that sedative you love so much. Then put on your armor—we'll see who's faster."
Tony raised an eyebrow. "You want to fight me right now?" He chuckled—until he saw Marcus's steady hand hadn't moved. The humor drained from his face. He nodded slowly. "Got it."
Outside, Captain America had also begun to piece things together. After a few seconds of silent calculation, he gripped his vibranium shield tighter, ready for combat. It was the perfect setup—quietly alert your allies, fortify your position, and stall for backup without alerting the enemy.
Then—
"Fire in the hole!"
The first volley came from all sides.
Dozens of smoke grenades were hurled into the villa's windows and doors, filling every room with choking gray mist. Within seconds, visibility dropped to less than a meter. The sound of boots pounded closer—at least thirty men, weapons drawn, safeties off.
"Lovely," Tony muttered. "Guess it's party time."
Panels unfolded from the briefcase at his feet, wrapping around him in a flurry of metal and light. In seconds, he stood clad in the Mark V armor—his portable, emergency variant. Sleeker, lighter, and faster to deploy, but far less durable than his usual model.
"Alright, boys," Tony said, the faceplate sliding shut with a click. "Let's dance."
Twin beams of plasma burst from his palms, slicing through the smoke and striking two Hydra operatives head-on. They were thrown backward, screaming.
Then came the hailstorm of bullets.
The soldiers retaliated with automatic gunfire, peppering Tony's armor in sparks. His red plating blackened as the air filled with the crack of gunfire and the smell of metal burning.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Through the haze, Captain America's shield spun like a buzzsaw, ricocheting between attackers. It struck one soldier square in the jaw, rebounded into another's ribs, deflected off a wall, and hit five more in rapid succession before returning neatly to his arm. Without pause, Rogers hurled it again, shattering another Hydra skull.
Iron Man and Captain America—one ranged, one close-quarters—moved like a synchronized machine. Within moments, a dozen soldiers lay unconscious or dead.
For a fleeting second, Marcus thought he might not need to lift a finger.
Then the roar of rotors shattered that illusion.
Ten armed helicopters appeared in the sky, descending on the villa like vultures. Without warning, they unleashed a storm of rockets.
Tony's sensors blared as he intercepted the first wave, firing repulsor blasts to detonate some midair. Seven or eight exploded harmlessly—but the rest slammed straight into the house.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The entire world became fire.
The villa disintegrated under the bombardment, sending bricks, dust, and debris hurtling into the air. Flames rose high into the sky, forming a burning mushroom cloud that swallowed everything in sight.
"Nick!" Rogers shouted, smashing another Hydra soldier aside before spinning toward the inferno.
Then, through the fire, a calm voice called out.
"Relax. We're fine."
From the smoking crater, a massive metal shield emerged—five times larger than Rogers's. Marcus held it effortlessly above his head, protecting himself and Fury from the worst of the blast. The flames licked harmlessly around them, unable to breach his improvised barrier.
Fury sat beside him, coughing and wide-eyed, momentarily stunned.
Marcus gave him a sidelong glance. "You look like hell, Director."
Fury blinked, realizing he was still sitting on the ground, and quickly composed himself. Standing up, he brushed soot off his jacket, raised his pistol, and barked, "Let's finish this."
Marcus simply smirked, retracting the giant shield back into his right arm.
He didn't need gratitude.
Only results.
___
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