He obeyed without question — it was an old trained instinct, the Winter Soldier responding to his handlers and following their guidance in the field, but it served him well here — veering the motorcycle onto sideroads and further away from the more trafficked thoroughfares. It was a late enough hour that thankfully the streets weren't packed, but they could still take this chase out to the edge of the city. Try to shake their pursuers.

And Bucky fell into operating on autopilot: the shift of their weight on the bike as they tilted into the turns, his hands tightening on the handlebars, the quick-snap reflexes to not slam into a billboard or fire hydrant or parked car, the concentration to ignore the patter of gunfire behind them.

The wind almost ripped Natasha's voice away from them, but his enhanced hearing caught the question. "Bikes can be replaced," he shouted back. "People can't. What d'you have in mind?"