Screech!
The piercing squeal of tires tore through the rainy night in Hell's Kitchen.
Three black heavy armored vehicles swung across the street, completely blocking the entrance to the Yang Clinic.
Their high beams pierced the glass, stretching the shadows inside into stark, pallid shapes.
Doors banged open. More than twenty fully armed Special Forces soldiers stepped into the standing water, their tactical flashlight beams sweeping across one another inside the clinic.
Ballistic shields led the way. Assault rifles were chambered.
The man at their head wore black combat fatigues and had a faint scar on the side of his face.
Crossbones, Brock Rumlow.
Inside the clinic, everyone froze.
Mindy's finger settled on her trigger. Frank didn't get up; he merely nudged the weapons case by his feet slightly open with his heel.
Peter turned his wrist, aiming his web shooter at the glass door.
Steve stood behind the blinds. When he glimpsed Rumlow's face through the slats, the corner of his eye twitched hard, and his right hand tightened abruptly around the edge of his shield.
"S.H.I.E.L.D. special assault team!" Rumlow raised a megaphone, his voice cold and hard.
"National security is at the highest emergency level! All civilian superhumans and mutants, lay down your weapons immediately! S.H.I.E.L.D. is taking command here!"
Bang!
One operator stepped forward and smashed the sign on the clinic's glass door with his rifle butt.
"Anyone defying orders will be deemed guilty of treason and shot on sight!" Rumlow signaled, and two agents kicked at the half-open glass door.
Steve stepped forward, about to hurl his shield.
A hand reached out of nowhere and held it down.
Yang Ming.
He wasn't wearing his white coat, only a fitted shirt in deep black.
He leisurely took off his gold-rimmed glasses and slipped them into his