Sorcerer in the Marvel Universe

"Only God can grant immortality."

Evenson closed his eyes and spoke with the solemnity of a saint.

Rumlow seemed almost infected by the reverence in his voice. He stared at Evenson with an expression that could best be described as awe...

Or perhaps disbelief at the sheer insanity of his superior.

Boss, I don’t know you that well, but I know you well enough.

If you actually believe in God, I’ll shave my head and spend the rest of my life in a monastery.

"Which means," Evenson said, dropping the holy-man act, "only beings on the level of God can grant true immortality. Satan, the Lords of Hell, entities of that caliber. Ordinary demons don’t have that authority."

He glanced sideways at Rumlow.

"Locke certainly doesn’t."

The first part of Evenson’s answer had been straightforward enough. It was simply a matter of understanding your limits and not pretending to possess powers beyond your station.

That final sentence, however, made Rumlow’s skin crawl.

Evenson had said it casually, but Rumlow couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a warning hidden beneath those words.

Had Evenson simply mentioned Locke because they were currently dealing with him?

Or had he noticed something?

Rumlow decided he wasn’t going to push the subject any further.

If Evenson hadn’t noticed anything, continuing to ask questions would only make him suspicious.

Fortunately, his superior had never seemed particularly invested in the matter. It had only been a passing question. Even if Rumlow learned nothing, there was little chance he’d be blamed for it.

Immortality was certainly an enticing subject.

But discussing immortality with a demon?

That was how you ended up signing away your soul for a warranty written in microscopic print.

Evenson found the whole idea amusing.

Imagine spending your entire fortune to satisfy a demon’s demands, only for the demon to happily grant you an infinite lifespan.

Then you get hit by a truck that same night.

Technically, the demon had kept its promise.

Infinite lifespan.

The fact that you died in an unfortunate traffic accident was hardly its problem.

Demons loved loopholes like that.

Still, Evenson found Rumlow’s sudden silence strange.

Were all the senior Hydra figures really that detached from worldly desires? Had they somehow become so enlightened that even the prospect of eternal life couldn’t tempt them?

Probably not.

As far as Evenson remembered, several of Hydra’s most powerful figures were getting on in years.

He narrowed his eyes.

Then it clicked.

Right.

Keeping the important technology in your own hands was always safer.

Daniel Whitehall immediately came to mind.

Evenson had crossed paths with that man several times, and Whitehall was perhaps the most obvious example of someone who had reversed his age.

True, he’d accomplished it by extracting the abilities and vitality of an Inhuman woman.

But surely he hadn’t stopped researching the process afterward.

And even if Whitehall himself had no interest in continuing that line of research, how could the other Hydra leaders possibly see him regain his youth and not become interested?

Whitehall had gone from a prisoner with nothing to his name to one of Hydra’s major power brokers.

Could the title of Red Skull’s disciple really have been enough?

No.

He had something else.

Something the other Hydra leaders desperately wanted.

Something valuable enough that they had supported him in rebuilding his power.

A method of restoring youth.

Perhaps it couldn’t provide true immortality, but even a technology capable of dramatically extending a person’s lifespan would be enough to make powerful men very, very interested.

Interesting.

Evenson smiled faintly.

Whitehall may have more tricks than I thought.

He began considering how he might get his hands on that technology.

Then—

BANG!

The thunderous impact shattered his train of thought.

Evenson turned around in annoyance.

Melinda was storming away, leaving behind a pale-faced Moru clutching his chest...

And a marble coffee table broken cleanly in half.

Evenson’s eyelid twitched.

My marble table...

He paused.

Wait. It’s not mine.

Never mind.

Rumlow, however, wasn’t nearly as relaxed.

Ironclad really is built like a tank.

One slap.

One marble table.

Two pieces.

Terrifying.

Absolutely terrifying.

Half an hour later, Evenson finally understood why Melinda had been so angry.

He grabbed Moru by the collar with one hand and pointed at the image displayed on the screen with the other.

"Ghost Rider?!"

His voice echoed through the aircraft.

"This is your secret weapon?!"

Moru mechanically nodded.

He genuinely didn’t understand why everyone had reacted so violently when he’d revealed his trump card.

Especially that woman.

Her slap had nearly scared his heart out of his chest.

Moru glanced at the tactical agents standing nearby, their expressions dark and unfriendly.

Perhaps they weren’t exactly saints themselves.

Maybe they simply had something against people like Ghost Rider.

"Land farther away," Moru suggested carefully. "I’ll go meet him alone. I know how to deal with him."

"No need."

Evenson shoved him aside and picked up the communicator.

"Melinda. Are you in the cockpit?"

"I’m here."

Her voice came through the communicator cold enough to freeze water.

Evenson pointed toward the ruined warehouse displayed on the screen.

"Level the building."

He paused.

"The guy won’t die anyway."

Finding Ghost Rider had been part of Evenson’s original plan.

Back when they’d started, he had no idea how to locate Locke. Ghost Rider could track the Son of the Devil, so using him as a guide had seemed like the most practical solution.

But things had changed.

They now had more information, and another possible way to find Locke.

That made Evenson much less interested in waking up a walking engine of supernatural vengeance.

Moru had also made one crucial point: Ghost Rider could track the Son of the Devil, but he couldn’t help them locate Locke himself.

That was the real reason Melinda had exploded.

She had just discovered that all her objections had been over something that wasn’t even necessary anymore.

"Understood."

Melinda’s voice carried a vicious satisfaction.

Apparently, Evenson’s solution was exactly what she had wanted to hear.

The aircraft’s rear section opened.

Three gun turrets rose from the hull.

Unfortunately, their angle made it impossible to fire directly at the warehouse below.

Melinda solved that problem by violently yanking the controls.

The entire aircraft tilted almost ninety degrees to the left and began circling the warehouse below.

Evenson’s expression changed.

"Wait—"

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The gun batteries opened fire.

The warehouse disappeared beneath a storm of artillery, sending clouds of dust and debris billowing into the air.

Evenson clung desperately to the nearest table.

"Seriously!"

He gritted his teeth as the aircraft banked around the target.

"Could you at least warn me before changing the flight angle?!"

For the next minute, the aircraft continued its brutal assault.

Then, apparently satisfied that she’d gotten it out of her system, Melinda finally leveled the aircraft.

Normal flight resumed.

Then the aircraft began its descent.

Evenson released the table and straightened his clothes.

"Everyone stays on board."

The tactical agents had only just finished dragging themselves back to their feet.

Evenson stepped toward the exit.

"I’m going to have a conversation with that guy."

He grabbed Moru, who was still staring blankly at the destruction below.

"Kid."

Moru looked at him.

Evenson gave him a meaningful look.

"Pay attention."

He pointed toward the open hatch.

"The first step in dealing with Ghost Rider is simple."

He stepped outside into the daylight.

"You talk to him somewhere with plenty of sunlight."

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