Marvel: A.T.L.A.S. - Ghost Protocol

Queens, New York - Pre-Dawn Hours

The ringing in Caspian's ears competed with the tactical data from his Emperor Eye. Three cracked ribs. Second-degree burns along his left side. The copper taste of blood in his mouth. Through the smoke and debris, he tracked multiple heat signatures converging on their position.

Howard lay ten feet away, partially shielded by a fallen storage container. Alive, but unconscious. Blood trickled from a head wound.

"Control, situation critical." Caspian's voice was steady despite his injuries. "Multiple hostiles. Package compromised. Need immediate extraction."

Static answered. The explosion had taken out their communications.

A figure emerged through the smoke, moving with military precision. Different from the first wave—better equipped, more professional. The Emperor Eye caught the subtle details of his stance. Russian special forces training, but not current military.

"You've caused quite a mess, Mr. Valemont." The man's accent was pure Moscow elite. "Though I suppose that's to be expected. Your mother runs her agents rather... aggressively."

Caspian calculated angles, weapons, possibilities. Three more hostiles moving to flank. Howard's breathing growing more labored. The burning files releasing toxic smoke.

"The research data is destroyed," Caspian said coldly. "You're too late."

"You think this is about Stark's papers?" The Russian actually smiled. "How charmingly naive. This..." he gestured at the carnage around them, "this is about sending a message. To A.T.L.A.S.. To your mother. Some doors should stay closed."

The Emperor Eye caught the subtle hand signal. The other operatives were in position.

"Though I admit," the Russian continued, "taking both Howard Stark and Carrie Valemont's son in one night... that's what we call a bonus."

Caspian's first throw took out the operative on the left, knife finding the gap between body armor plates. His second missed as pain flared from his ribs, but it forced the others to duck for cover.

The Russian was good. His first burst of fire would have killed a normal operative. But the Emperor Eye saw the pattern, let Caspian slip between the bullets like water through stones.

They crashed together in close combat. The Russian's technique was excellent—Spetsnaz mixed with something older, deadlier. But Caspian's Emperor Eye caught every telegraph, every micro-expression. Combined with Ninjak's abilities, it made him untouchable.

"Impressive," the Russian grunted, spitting blood after a particularly brutal exchange. "The rumors about you appear to be true."

The remaining operatives held their fire, unwilling to risk hitting their commander. Caspian used the moment to put himself between them and Howard's unconscious form.

"But you're still young." The Russian's smile showed more bloody teeth. "Still thinking like a spy. When you should be thinking like a survivor."

The Emperor Eye caught the movement too late. Not an attack—a detonator. In the Russian's hand.

The next explosion brought down what remained of the ceiling. Caspian threw himself over Howard, using a fallen beam for partial cover. His Emperor Eye tracked the Russian and his men retreating through a pre-planned exit route.

"Control, do you copy?" Static, then finally a response.

"Multiple teams converging on your location," Walter's voice crackled through damaged comms. "Medical en route. Director Valemont is—"

"Belay that," Caspian cut in, checking Howard's pulse. Weak but steady. "New contact protocol alpha. We've been compromised."

A pause. "Understood. Safe house seven is clear."

Caspian lifted Howard with a grunt of pain, noting the spreading pool of blood where the older man had lain. Not all of it was Howard's. The Emperor Eye had caught something in those final moments of combat—the Russian's fighting style, a specific combination of moves.

He'd seen them before. In classified A.T.L.A.S. files dating back decades.

Getting Howard to the safe house took every bit of training and ability Caspian possessed. By the time they arrived, fresh blood had soaked through his tactical gear, and his vision was starting to grey at the edges.

The A.T.L.A.S. medical team worked efficiently, quietly. No questions asked, no reports filed. This hadn't happened. Not officially.

"Status?" Carrie's voice came through a secure line hours later.

"Howard's stable. Has information you need to hear." Caspian's voice was raw from smoke inhalation. "But we have a larger problem."

"Explain."

"The commander of the wet team..." Caspian hesitated. "He used combat techniques that were classified. Internal to A.T.L.A.S. training from the 1960s."

The silence that followed was heavy with implications.

"The breach is older than we thought," Carrie finally said. "Much older."

Through the safe house window, dawn was breaking over New York. Somewhere out there, a Russian operative with A.T.L.A.S. training was reporting to his masters. Old sins were coming due, and blood would be the currency of their payment.