Paranoia Never Lies #37

The officer rested an arm on the roof of Nathan's car, his face impassive under the glow of the flashing lights. "Someone must really like you…" he muttered. "Your presence is required down at the station."

His voice carried the exhausted resignation of a man who had long given up questioning the strange errands he was forced to run.

With a sigh, he added, "And before you ask—I have no idea why this time around. So don't bother."

Nathan chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "And it seems someone really doesn't like you… Sending you to ambush people on the side of the road with no explanation?" He shook his head. "Can't be a pleasant assignment for anyone."

The cop let out a dry huff, shaking his head. "I just happen to be posted in the area."

Nathan eyed him for a moment, taking in the man's posture, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his hand rested just a little too close to his holster—like a man expecting trouble.

"Well, alright then." He exhaled as if it were no more than a minor inconvenience. "Thanks for your hard work, officer."

The officer nodded, stepping back as Nathan rolled up his window.

But as he shifted gears and pulled back onto the road, his expression darkened.

Something wasn't right. "The guy seems differnet…"

His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror, watching as the cop climbed into his own patrol car.

Nathan expected him to turn around or stay put—but no. He pulled out onto the road and started following.

Nathan's suspecious was out of sheer paranoia, an instinct so deeply ingrained that it had long since stopped feeling like paranoia at all. It was simply how he operated.

Still, even if he was following him, there was always a chance they were just heading in the same direction.

It could mean nothing. But then again, nothing had never tried to kill him before. Nathan didn't survive this long by betting on optimism.

His gaze flicked to the rearview mirror again. The cop was still there.

Nathan's fingers tapped idly against the wheel, his mind drifting through possibilities. Maybe the guy had gotten curious—maybe he wanted to get a better read on the man he'd been sent to summon.

Nathan shook his head immediately. "Best case scenario."

And best case scenarios never happened.

Worst case?

His jaw clenched as his mind filled in the gaps. Maybe this wasn't a real cop. Maybe the moment he stopped, the guy would put a bullet in his head. Maybe this was a trap, and the badge was just a formality.

Up ahead, the traffic light turned green.

Nathan's hands tightened on the wheel, already deciding—he'd slow down, cross the intersection, and pull over after. If anything was off, he'd be in a better position to react.

The red and blue exploded in his rearview mirror, the blaring siren breaking the tense silence in his car.

Nathan sighed through his nose and let the car slow naturally, steering toward the curb just past the intersection. He glanced at the mirror one last time.

Then everything exploded.

A violent impact slammed into his passenger side, the world twisting sideways in an instant.

The air filled with the sound of crushing metal, glass shattering like ice, and the deep, sickening crunch of his car being obliterated.

Nathan barely had time to react before his body lurched violently, the seatbelt digging into his chest as the car was flung sideways. He caught a split-second glimpse of the culprit—a dark SUV barreling straight into him—before his head snapped back against the headrest.

Everything spun.

The tires screamed against the pavement as the car veered out of control, the momentum dragging it across the road. Nathan instinctively tensed, hands gripping for leverage, but the momentum was too much. The vehicle tipped, tilting onto two wheels before gravity made the final call.

The world flipped.

The car rolled over, slamming onto its roof before bouncing once, twice—before finally crashing down hard, the metal frame groaning under the weight.

Nathan barely had time to brace as the impact rattled his bones, leaving him dazed, upside-down, and bleeding into broken glass.

Nathan blacked out for no more than a moment—just long enough for his brain to register pain, adrenaline, and danger in rapid succession. His eyes snapped open at the sound of approaching footsteps, the crunch of boots against shattered glass. Instinct roared to life.

His fingers found the knife still tucked against his thigh. A flick of the wrist, a clean cut—the seatbelt snapped free. Nathan twisted, slipping the knife back into his coat as he crawled out through the shattered driver's side window, glass slicing against his palms as he pushed himself up.

A familiar figure loomed nearby.

The cop.

Nathan's frown deepened. The police officer had pulled over and was already moving toward him, his expression unreadable.

"Are you alright?" the officer asked, kneeling beside him.

Nathan exhaled sharply, forcing himself to his feet. "I'll be fine," he muttered.

The cop nodded, then jerked his head behind Nathan.

"Well," he said, tone urgent, "let's get you out of here—quickly. The car's caught fire."

Nathan's eyes stayed locked on his face.

A slow blink. A steady breath.

Then, with a voice too even to be casual, he replied, "I don't smell smoke."

For a split second, the officer froze. Then, his gaze turned cold.

Nathan could see it now—the way the man's muscles had tensed just a fraction too much, the way his right hand twitched just out of view. He'd been waiting for Nathan to look away.

But Nathan didn't.

The cop's hand snapped up, something glinting between his fingers—a glass injector filled with an unknown substance.

Nathan caught his wrist mid-swing.

"Good effort," he murmured, his grip turning to iron as his other hand slid beneath his coat.

The cop's eyes widened as Nathan drew the same knife he'd used to cut himself free just moments ago. "But not good enough."

The blade plunged deep into the officer's chest.

The cop gasped—a horrible, wet sound—as blood bubbled from his lips. His knees buckled, but he clung to Nathan's arm with all the strength he had left.

Then—a sharp crack.

Nathan's eyes flickered downward just in time to see the injector shatter in the officer's fist.

The liquid inside turned to vapor instantly, hissing into the cold night air.

The cop let out a final, rattling breath. "Hail HYDRA," he whispered, before slumping lifelessly against Nathan's shoulder.

Nathan barely had time to curse before the gas hit his lungs.

A burning, numbing fog spread through his body in seconds, dulling his limbs, turning his vision to ink. His breath hitched, his grip loosening. He tried to move—tried to fight it off—but the world was already spinning sideways.

Then, through the haze, he saw them.

Figures.

Shadows approaching fast.

...

The office was cluttered but controlled, the kind of chaos that only someone with an obsessive grip on their operations could maintain. A sleek monitor flickered on Rick Mason's desk, displaying a looping security feed from one of his firm's many hidden surveillance hubs.

Maps, case files, and old mission reports were stacked high, some spilling over onto the floor. The blinds were half-closed, allowing only thin slivers of afternoon light to seep through, casting sharp lines across the room.

Steve Rogers stood in the middle of it all, arms crossed, gaze sharp. His patience was already thinning.

"What do you mean he's unreachable?" Steve asked, voice steady but firm.

Rick Mason sat behind his desk, fingers drumming restlessly against the wood. He looked frustrated—no, outright agitated. The usual cool detachment he wore like armor was slipping fast.

"I mean exactly what it sounds like," Rick snapped, leaning forward. His chair creaked under the sudden movement. "He's gone, Rogers. Off the grid."

Steve's jaw tightened. He took a slow breath through his nose. "If this is some kind of power play," he said, taking a deliberate step closer, "I'm not impressed."

Rick scoffed, shaking his head, clearly done with this conversation before it even began.

"Power play?" He let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "You think I'm playing games right now?" He ran a hand over his face, dragging it down as if physically trying to hold back his irritation.

Steve didn't flinch. "Then explain."

Rick exhaled hard, fingers pressing into the desk. "I was supposed to meet with Nathan this morning. He didn't show."

Steve frowned. "Maybe something came up."

Rick shot him a glare. "Nathan doesn't miss meetings. He's more punctual than my damn Rolex."

Steve's frown deepened, the weight of Rick's words settling into something cold in his chest.

"We started looking into it," Rick continued, voice grimmer now. "Found his rental car totaled on the side of the road. No trace of him—except for some blood."

That hit like a punch to the gut.

Steve's arms dropped to his sides as he processed that information. A rental car, wrecked. Blood. No body. No signs of struggle left behind—because whoever had taken Nathan had done it cleanly.

Silence stretched between them for a beat before Steve finally spoke.

"SHIELD will do everything it can to help," he said, his voice measured.

Rick's laugh this time was outright bitter.

"Oh yeah?" He leaned back, shaking his head. "You've done enough already."

Steve's gaze snapped back to him. "What the hell does that mean?"

Rick pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, "This is why I told him to bide his time more…"

Steve's frustration flared again. "What are you talking about?"

Rick dropped his hand and fixed Steve with a hard look.

"Come on, Rogers," he said, tone flat. "What do you think this is about?"

Steve narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

Rick leaned forward, pressing his hands against the desk. "Nathan isn't some guy who just gets kidnapped or killed out of nowhere. He knows every trick in the book—hell, he wrote half of 'em." His voice was steady, but the anger beneath it was barely restrained.

He exhaled through his nose, gaze darkening. "But he meets up with you, gives you intel on HYDRA, and boom—he's gone. Just like that."

The tension in the room felt thick enough to cut through, the kind of heavy, oppressive silence that preceded either a fistfight or a complete fallout. Rick Mason's jaw was set like iron, his fingers drumming on his desk before curling into a fist. His usual composure had frayed to the point of snapping, and Steve Rogers could see it.

But Steve wasn't about to back down.

His expression hardened, blue eyes locking onto Rick's with an intensity that had sent men twice his size stumbling back in fear.

"Are you insinuating that we have an intel leak?" Steve asked, his tone low, measured, but carrying a weight behind it.

Rick didn't even blink. Didn't flinch.

"I'm not insinuating shit, Rogers." His voice was flat, but the sharpness underneath it cut deep. "I'm telling you—this is your fault."

Steve's fingers twitched at his sides, but he didn't react beyond that. Rick, however, wasn't done.

He leaned forward, his tone edged with something dangerous now, like a blade pressed too close to the skin.

"Because the leak didn't come from us." He gritted his teeth before adding, "Unlike SHIELD, we run a tight ship here. No one so much as sneezes without me knowing about it."

Steve held his gaze, searching for any sign of exaggeration. He found none.

Damn it.

He let out a slow breath through his nose, forcing himself to keep calm. There was no point in arguing. Whether Rick was right or not, it didn't change the fact that Nathan was gone. And they needed to fix that.

"If that's the case," Steve said, voice quieter but resolute, "then I'll apologize upfront."

Rick raised an eyebrow, but Steve wasn't done.

"You have my word—I will do everything in my power to find him."

Rick held his stare for a long moment, then exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the sheer frustration clawing at him.

"Just…" He dragged a hand down his face, clearly exhausted. "Just go, Rogers. Let me focus on figuring this out."

Steve gave him a slow, steady nod. He didn't say anything else—there was nothing more to say.

Without another word, he turned and walked out, leaving Rick alone in the dimly lit office, his fingers clenched tightly into a white-knuckled fist against the desk.

...

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