Sorcerer in the Marvel Universe

Evenson looked up.

This time, Sitwell hadn’t come alone.

The bald SHIELD agent was flanked by Brock Rumlow, dressed in tactical gear with an assault rifle slung across his chest, and Melinda May.

"Well, Sitwell. Long time no see." Evenson immediately brightened, apparently delighted to see his reinforcements. "The last time we met was—"

"It has indeed been a long time." Sitwell cut him off smoothly. "Let’s not discuss the details here."

His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the surrounding police officers.

Evenson tilted his head.

Right. Sensitive information. In front of the NYPD probably wasn’t the best place to reminisce about certain operations.

He turned to Rumlow instead.

"How have you been since our last collaboration?"

Rumlow gave him a smile that was almost friendly.

"Thanks to you, I lost six months of bonuses."

"And so did I," May added flatly, staring at Evenson with the dead-eyed expression of someone who had already decided he was annoying.

Evenson’s eyes widened.

"No way. You mean because of that personal terminal?" He looked between them in disbelief. "Nick Fury isn’t that petty, is he?"

He wasn’t sure what May had done to earn Fury’s displeasure, but he remembered what had happened during their last mission.

Inside that church in Lithuania, he’d lost his temper and smashed Rumlow’s personal terminal.

Technically, that counted as non-combat equipment damage.

But surely Fury wouldn’t dock the team leader’s entire six-month bonus over something that small.

Otherwise, Hydra might as well start handing out recruitment pamphlets titled When Management Leaves You No Choice.

"Not exactly." Rumlow’s smile turned bitter. "The bigger problem was the final battle. Our entire team was ordered to stand by while everyone else got to have all the fun."

Evenson winced.

That part was true.

When Locke had performed the possession ritual at the ancient ruins outside Sokovia, the perimeter had been secured almost entirely by the mages from the hidden magical order that Clea had brought in.

Rumlow’s team had spent the entire battle standing on a nearby hill, watching the fight unfold without being able to participate.

Fury had been furious.

He understood the circumstances, of course. Only a little over twenty operatives had been sent on the mission. Throwing them into a battle like that would have been suicide.

But they could have requested reinforcements.

If SHIELD had been informed of the situation, Fury could have coordinated a military force and sent support within half an hour.

Instead, an organization SHIELD knew almost nothing about had arrived, taken over the fight, and solved the problem.

The outcome had been good.

That didn’t make Fury happy.

Nick Fury was a man who liked knowing exactly what was happening inside his own organization. Allowing a mysterious group operating behind the scenes to intervene in a SHIELD operation without his knowledge was, in his mind, a dangerous precedent.

Fortunately for Rumlow, Fury also knew the tactical team had simply followed orders. They hadn’t been the ones making decisions.

And since the person actually giving those orders had been Evenson, who probably wouldn’t listen to a lecture anyway, Fury had settled for a symbolic punishment.

Six months’ bonus.

For both Rumlow and May.

"Sorry." Evenson shrugged, offering an apology with absolutely no trace of guilt.

May shot him a sideways glare.

"Good fight... actually, forget it. Just don’t bring it up again."

Evenson wisely decided not to.

The conversation had left the NYPD officers standing awkwardly nearby.

Eventually, Grayson couldn’t take it anymore.

He looked at Sitwell.

"Is he one of yours?"

"Of course."

Sitwell answered with such absolute certainty that there wasn’t even room for interpretation.

Then his attention shifted.

"Mr. Holmes. It’s been a while. How have you been?"

Holmes gave a dismissive snort.

"Reasonably well."

His tone was distinctly unfriendly.

Evenson raised an eyebrow.

"You two know each other?"

He hadn’t expected SHIELD to have any connection to Holmes, the NYPD’s consulting detective.

"Recruitment prospect," Sitwell explained with a shrug. "I was his interviewer."

"Oh."

Evenson looked Holmes over with renewed interest.

SHIELD recruited people with unusual talents from all walks of life. Someone with Holmes’s extraordinary intelligence and almost absurd deductive abilities would naturally attract their attention.

Apparently, the recruitment hadn’t gone well.

"Why not?"

Sitwell sighed.

"Some personal interests of his."

"I see."

Evenson’s gaze dropped toward the strange little badge pinned to Holmes’s clothing.

Apparently, neither SHIELD nor Hydra had much tolerance for that particular hobby.

He decided not to ask.

Sitwell removed his glasses and wiped them with a cloth.

"Well, Commissioner, Detectives..." He glanced toward Grayson. "SHIELD has some official business to conduct. Would you mind giving us some privacy?"

The words were technically phrased as a request.

His tone wasn’t.

Grayson’s expression darkened.

"He’s currently connected to a suspect who’s committed a serious felony."

"If he says he isn’t involved, then he isn’t involved." Sitwell put his glasses back on. "And if he is involved, that’s SHIELD’s concern."

He paused.

"If you have a problem with that, have your superior speak to me."

My superior?

Grayson’s face nearly turned purple.

So that’s what you’re saying. I’m too low-ranking to talk to you?

Under normal circumstances, he might have argued.

But the problem was that Sitwell was right.

Technically speaking, Grayson didn’t have the authority to push this any further without going through his chain of command.

And given the circumstances, getting a search warrant was probably impossible anyway. Without legal grounds to proceed, there wasn’t much he could do.

"Everyone, we’re leaving."

Grayson ground his teeth as he finally gave the order.

His officers, however, looked almost completely unfazed.

They’d seen this before.

The NYPD had been pushed out of crime scenes by the FBI.

Then the National Security Agency.

Then the Secret Service.

Then the CIA.

At this point, getting kicked out by another federal agency was practically part of the job description.

Best to accept it and move on.

As the officers began filing out, Holmes stopped beside Evenson.

"Seriously," he said.

He reached out and casually brushed something off Evenson’s clothing.

"I can’t believe I actually believed you."

Evenson narrowed his eyes.

Holmes was holding a tiny black bead between his fingers.

Caviar.

Evenson recognized it immediately.

He’d been eating caviar at Milhak’s place the night before and had apparently managed to drop a single egg onto his clothes without noticing.

According to Milhak, the caviar was a Russian specialty that wasn’t exported outside the country.

One tiny piece had escaped everyone’s attention.

Everyone except Sherlock Holmes.

Evenson’s eyes sharpened.

"Mr. Holmes."

He suddenly caught Holmes’s wrist.

"I think we should exchange contact information."

Holmes blinked.

"For someone with your talents, I suspect we’ll have plenty to discuss in the future."

"Hmm..."

Holmes’s expression changed.

Something warm spread across the hand Evenson was holding.

He looked down.

The tiny bead of caviar he’d been holding had vanished in a wisp of blue smoke.

Holmes stared at his fingers.

Then at Evenson.

"Fine."

He pulled his hand free with considerably more force than necessary, reached into his coat, and produced a business card.

Evenson accepted it.

The entire exchange left the surrounding officers staring in profound discomfort.

First Evenson had grabbed Holmes’s hand.

Then he’d asked for his contact information.

And Holmes had actually agreed.

Combined with that unmistakably British accent, the whole thing was... deeply unsettling.

Very, very unsettling.

No one said anything.

Sometimes silence was the safest option.

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