Rescue Mission
Segment 1
Jessica's sweaty hands wrung together, reddened by her tight and anxious grasp. Wavy, blonde locks of her disheveled hair drifted into her face, a thin curtain over her eyes tickling her brow and cheeks, but she only paused her restlessness to shove them away with one quick sweep of her hand. Her hotel room would appear pleasant and serene to any passerby, but the silence and emptiness felt like the chilled touch of death itself to the runaway, enveloping her in dim evening light and deafening her with fears of what else would rise with the sun if she dared fall asleep. She wasn't here for vacation, to tour this city of Paris or any of France for that matter. No, it was a business trip gone wrong, as she might have jested if her heart could quit thumping in her chest like a bumblebee in a Styrofoam cup. How could she not have noticed those six Colombians at the back of the plane, their fearful gazes, their locked jaws and cautious glances toward the two thugs around them? After five months of employment, how could she have only now discovered the true purpose for all of these trips overseas? They were not business transactions for the sale of machinery, but for human labor. How blind could she be?
A rigid vibrate jerked her stiffened body to the reality around her; someone was calling her phone. She'd stifled the ringtone earlier then set it to rest on the bed. Hand shaking violently, she reached for the active device as one might for a snake that she isn't sure is dead. Was this it? Had her ex-boss found her? So soon? Another vibrate trickled down her limb as she brushed a finger across the touch screen. Both relief and apprehension raced to her widening, cerulean eyes when the caller ID was displayed: Mom.
"No!" she gasped breathlessly, immediately fearing the worst. Nothing could stop her in that moment from answering the call; if anything were to happen, it would be to her, not her mother. She would see to that! "He-hello?" she managed hoarsely from hours without a voice.
"Hello, Miss Jessica Evans," a deep, male voice answered, casually but matured by some hidden knowledge. Its lack of familiarity was neither soothing nor nerve-wracking yet. "As you can probably tell, this is not yo' momma," the mysterious man, allegedly black by his tone, continued. "This is Director Nick Fury of S.H.I.E.L.D., and I have an agent ready to assist you."
Jessica's eyes widened, her head shaking in disbelief. So many questions flowed to her mind in that instant. "S.h-S.H.I.E.L.D.; what is that? Wh-where is my mother?" She made every effort to keep her voice still and calm.
"Probably at home," Director Fury easily replied, "I just used her number so you'd pick up. The only thing you need to know about S.H.I.E.L.D. is that you can trust us. We have a source inside of Falcone's company that alerted us to your situation. We need you to cooperate so that we can get you back to the states and under the protection of the law. Do you understand?"
Jessica swallowed an iron lump in her throat. She understood. But could she cooperate with complete strangers? What other options did she have? Wait for Falcone to find her and then die? "Y-Yes…" she blinked back the shallow tears blearing her eyes, "Thank you." Her voice softened, allowing herself to submit to further explanation.
Satisfied by her response, Fury continued. "Alright, first thing I want you to do is close the blinds on your windows." Jessica lifted her eyes to the blinds that she had already shoved closed – one of the first things she did upon entering the room. "Second thing I want you to do is take the SIM card out of this phone and slide it under the bed; this will deactivate your phone but also keep them from tracking you."
Jessica nodded intently even though he couldn't see it, biting down on her lower lip to concentrate on his every word.
"Thirdly, there will be a knock at your door, three short knocks; the man knocking is named Agent Clint Barton. He will assist you from here on out. Our plan is to have you home in less than two days. Good luck, and do exactly as he tells you. Goodbye, Miss Evans."
She had an opportunity to stop him from hanging up, should she have any questions, but only released a quick, "I-I will. Thank you," before the call had ended. With a few deep breaths, the air she inhaled felt hollow, much like the butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling, and her arms felt weary as they braced to push her from the plush mattress to her feet. Her unsteady fingers quickly clicked the back of the phone open, withdrawing the SIM card just as she had been instructed. Sliding it along the clean carpet into the shadows beneath the bedframe, she'd only just stood up, grabbing her brown, leather purse and beige jacket to be ready, when three short knocks reached her ears.
Jessica exhaled to ease some tension in her shoulders as she crept to the door to answer. Before her stood a man a few inches taller than her, intense by demeanor but handsome, looking away until she came into view. His hair was a dull, light brown shade and short, spiking up above his forehead and wide, ocean blue eyes. He wore a plain, gray shirt beneath a black leather jacket, his hands slipping out of his jean pockets upon greeting her. "Miss Evans, Clint Barton," his baritone voice spoke up as he lifted some badge before her; it bore an unfamiliar symbol but matched the acronym Director Fury had used. "May I come in?" he lowered the badge, expression impassive yet emanating some empowering aura of confidence.
"Yes, of course," she accommodated, slipping out of his way.
Clint spared no moment to follow and step past her further inside. As she carefully closed the door behind him, he scanned the room briefly with only his gaze before turning to face her and await her attention. "You removed your SIM card?" he asked calmly, hands resting on his hips.
"Yes, it's under the bed," she nodded, flustered but pressing back her inner panic for his sake.
Clint nodded, staying matter-of-fact. "Then it's time to pack up. You got luggage?"
Jessica opened her mouth to respond but found the answer difficult. Her luggage? When would she have had time, running for her life? "No, I-I didn't..." she winced. The story was way too long to explain. "No," she concluded, smiling a little uneasily at her clumsy answer.
"Good," he nodded, still nearly expressionless, as she might have expected from a secret agent. "You'd better get some sleep; we've got a flight in four hours." With that he moved past her to lock the hotel door and then silently approached the windows to investigate them also.
Jessica frowned in faint surprise, glancing down at the purse and jacket she'd been hugging at her side. "Uh—okay," she agreed quietly, setting her things down on the mattress and stealing another few glances toward the busied agent in the meantime.
Upon locking the windows, he peered meaningfully behind the edge of blinds, likely spying by streetlight for any undesired guests.
Jessica's eyes paced with thoughts of something else to say; somehow, she needed to be more of a hostess than this. It would do her escort no good for her to be a shy victim of circumstance. Clearing her throat, she spoke up before knowing what to say, "Um, Mr. Barton?" He turned his eyes to her curiously, and she soon felt half-ridiculous for the words to follow. "Can I…get you anything? A…" she winced, realizing she was hardly in a proper hostess position to offer, "Glass of water?" It really was the best she could do in an obscure hotel room.
While she regretted even bringing it up, Clint shook his head, unfazed by the abrupt proposal. "I'm fine," he replied, eyes crinkling as a subtle, amused smirk tugged at his mouth. "I'll keep watch. You just rest." The command was offered gently, and – even as she could hardly see herself sleeping – Jessica nodded in agreement and soon curled up on the mattress beside her possessions, atop the comforter with one arm wrapped beneath the pillow. She couldn't see taking off her shoes and snuggling into the fluffy embrace of the sheets and blankets, but she would try to at least rest her eyes…just for an hour or so…she'd probably need it.
Clint watched as the woman he was to protect lied rigidly on the hotel bed. Her gold hair fell clumsily into her face, and she brushed it back while shifting to a comfortable position. Despite her obvious anxiety, he was content to observe that his presence had at least helped her drift asleep within ten minutes. The agent mostly kept a watchful eye out the window for suspicious activity but hardly resisted a few glances, now and then, toward the sleeping Miss Evans.
