He didn’t drink coffee. His was the nadir of physical perfection—athlete, gymnast. The ultimate soldier. Yet he was standing in a coffee shop on 14^th just East of the Hudson, waiting for something to give him back a portion of the alertness he’d been missing for days.

He was sluggish, which meant Diamond was right. It was in his system. Ice—the drug he inhaled in the warehouse explosion.

Judging by their hostility, the customers behind him he didn’t belong. Maybe it was his look. The straight posture. The formal stance. It was not uncommon. These days, no one liked to see an old soldier.

"Sugar, sir?"

"No thank you."

The coffee was bad enough without the sugar. He counted out his change.

From the back of the line came a sneer of impatience. "Hurry up," whined one of them, arms crossed tightly across his chest, foot tapping the floor.

Steve Rogers said nothing. Thirty years of war permits a man patience.

"Don’t say anything else," one of them whispered.

He smiled, settled his bill and walked past them into the morning’s fresh air. There were three of them—unshaven, a little flabby. Three. All young. He could have taken them all. Good soldier.

He sipped a little on the hot liquid as he passed through the exhaust of a parked truck, its fumes dense in the cold air. So much for the freshness of the morning. Strange lived in the Village, just a little south of here. If there was a man alive that could help him rid his body of this ice, it was Strange.

Strange, he thought, passing through the intersection, strange that those men were so rude. That they were so impatient. Midway through the intersection, something clicked: the running van, the impatient men.

Except for himself, the barista, and the crowd of three, the shop had been empty. A pefect target. It might be nothing. Then again—. The heft of the blue chain mail links under his shirt, the press of the indestructible shield strapped against his back—these were reminders. His duty. Observance.

He doubled back onto 14^th, meeting the eyes of the van driver, parked in the street. Fear. Anxiety. Speed. It was painfully clear.

This was no time for subtlety. He ducked into an alley, pulled his cowl over his face, let his clothes drop to the ground, unstrapped his shield.

The shield. Made from pure adamantium. Indestructible. It had seen him through so many battles—on foreign countries, different worlds. As leader, as follower.

He gripped its handle tightly and stormed onto 14^th, a flash of blue. A glance into the store window confirmed his belief. The woman behind the counter was emptying the register into a bag while the three waved guns.

He reached up to the van door, ripped it open, saw the shock on the driver’s face. He had not expected this—bam! A shield bash dropped him quickly, painlessly. Cap dragged him out of the van, laid him in the street.

Now for the real action.

He flung the door open, shouting "drop your weapons, and no one will get hurt!"

One of them dropped his gun. Cap focused his attention on the other two. His shield caught the first robber in the midsection just as he pulled up his weapon to shoot. Good soldier. There would be no resistance this New York morning.

The third did something unexpected. Leaped over the counter and grabbed the woman by the neck, pointed his gun at her head.

"Cap," he panted, "don’t even think of making another move."

Cap froze. One of the robbers cowered in the corner, the other lie on the ground, crying and holding his stomach. But the look in this one’s eyes, with his gun pointed to the young girl’s head, was very serious. It was a look of desperation.

"Cap," he yelled, yanking the girl out from behind the counter, and walking toward him, "it’s nothing personal."

"Let the girl go. We can negotiate."

"We can’t negotiate!"

"Let the girl go."

"Say one more word, Cap," he shouted, his face near the Captain’s, "and I will shoot. Got it? You’ve lost this one, Cap. You failed." The robber quickly backed up to the door, the young girl teary eyed, looking toward the Captain. He was paralyzed. This coffee shop was too small for him to maneuver, too small for a banked shield shot. He watched the robber drag the poor young girl into the street and out near the van, stepping over his unconscious teammate. The robber threw the girl into the street and jumped into the van.

Now was his moment. Cap charged forward.

He wasn’t quick enough. Cap’s fingers brushed the door as the robber accelerated, squealing his tires as he flew away from the curb.

For a moment Cap watched him disappear towards the Hudson. No license plate. Damn.

He crouched, meeting the eyes of the young girl. She was the first priority.

"Are you all right, ma’am?"

"Yes," she sobbed, "yes."

"Come on," he said, helping her to her feet, "we’ll get you fixed up in no time." He wiped the blood from a scratch on her face with the blue of his glove. With one arm he lifted the unconscious robber from the street, and brought him inside.

"Against the wall, now," he commanded the other two, who dragged themselves into a corner.

The bag full of stolen money lay abandoned in the middle of the floor, where the robber had dropped it in his haste to leave.

"Ma’am," he said softly, seating her at a table, "don’t worry. I have three of his friends in my custody. Finding him won’t be a problem."

"Thank you," she said.

He smiled. Three out of four. A bit sluggish.

Not bad for an old soldier.

-Matt Demo

mpgdemo@yahoo.com