Ferdinand's call had reminded John that New York, battered and scarred as it was, was a gold mine.
The aftermath of the Battle of New York involved more than alien technology. There was also all the repair and reconstruction work.
Getting a slice of that pie was enough to put another face in Vanity Fair magazine.
A massive reconstruction effort, backed by enormous government contracts.
Handled properly, it could move someone several places up the rich list.
John casually picked up the Mind Stone Scepter, whose energy glow had dimmed considerably, and said, "Contact Nick Fury."
MOSS said, "Contacting Nick Fury."
The call connected almost immediately.
"I found what you wanted. Come pick it up."
How could a single sentence bring half of S.H.I.E.L.D. to your doorstep?
When the Wick family's doorbell rang, John was holding a picture frame and putting a photograph inside.
Hearing the bell, he opened the door.
Outside stood that black hard-boiled egg... no, Nick Fury, with his toughest subordinates gathered at the entrance.
Natasha and Barton stood on either side.
Rumlow, captain of the S.H.I.E.L.D. Strike Team, led a fully armed squad. The bald agent named Sitwell looked distinctly uncomfortable, glancing this way and that.
Agents watched every nearby intersection.
Had they not been worried about drawing too much attention, they would have cordoned off several streets and sent aircraft to patrol overhead.
Fury wore a black trench coat and stood with his hands behind his back. "Where is it?"
John raised an eyebrow as he looked outside. "With this many people, I don't have enough refreshments to go around."
Looking at Sitwell, John teased, "Looks like your hand slipped."
Sitwell looked even more uncomfortable.
Who could have imagined Captain America saying "Hail Hydra" himself?
He had thought it was in the bag, only to