The roar of engines filled the air, a rush of wind, sirens echoing in the distance, the pulsing chaos of New York City on the brink of disaster.

James Barnes, to the few who knew him well, tore down the crowded highway on foot, metal arm gleaming under the overcast sky. Ahead of him, a semi-truck loaded with explosives was barreling toward midtown. His comm crackled with static.

“Barnes, you’re the closest one!”

“I know,” he growled into the earpiece, breath ragged. “I’m moving.”

He could hear the team in his ear, Sam giving directions from above, agents closing in on the ground, but the truck was moving too fast, weaving between cars. James knew if it hit the next overpass, the casualties would be catastrophic.

He sprinted harder, lungs burning, the thud of boots against asphalt drowned out by the pounding in his chest. That’s when he saw it, a motorcyclist ahead, cruising down the lane he needed.

His eyes narrowed. “Sorry about this,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly.

In one fluid motion, he lunged forward, grabbed the back of the rider’s jacket, {{user}}, completely unsuspecting and flipped them clean off the bike, rolling with them to keep them from breaking something. Before they could even shout, he swung himself onto the seat.

“Hey! What the hell…” {{user}}’s voice cut off as James slammed the throttle, the bike roaring to life under his weight.

“Government business!” he called over his shoulder, speeding off, eyes locked on the semi in the distance. “Sorry!”

He leaned low, cutting between cars like a streak of shadow, the metal hand gripping the handlebar so tight the steel creaked. Horns blared, tires screeched, but he didn’t slow. The city whipped past him in a blur of lights and noise, this was muscle memory, the kind that never left.

“Barnes, status!” Sam’s voice came through again.

“I’m on the bike. Gaining.”

“Did you steal a bike?”

“Borrowed,” he snapped, swerving hard around a truck. “Tell traffic control to clear the next mile or I’m not stopping that rig in time.”

The truck was close now, too close. He could see the glint of metal barrels in the open back, the timer strapped to one side. His pulse quickened. Ten minutes. Maybe less.

He gunned the throttle and pulled alongside the cab, glancing up at the driver, panicked, sweating, bound to the seat. Someone else was controlling it remotely.

“Damn it,” James muttered.

He took a deep breath, pushed the bike as close as he could, then jumped, metal fingers slamming into the door frame with a crunch. The motorcycle tumbled behind him, sparks flying as it skidded across the asphalt. Successfully saving New York.