Chapter 1

Clint Barton peered round the corner of the underground tunnel, his back pressed firmly against the brick wall. The icy cold water that came up to his ankles rendered it nearly impossible to sneak around - but he managed. Curse Natasha Romanoff for getting captured. Now he had to search through these damned tunnels in order to break her out. Sometimes he really hated his partner's unpredictability. She was his responsibility now, Fury had allowed her to live, but Clint was the one who had to make sure she played by the rules. Unhooking his bow from his arm, he lifted it up and pulled out an arrow from the quiver, loading it into his bow. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and rounded the corner.

Two agents stood at the end of the tunnel by a ladder that leads up through a manhole and into the street. Light filtered down from the gap, illuminating the two figures. Clint didn't want to use his gun unless he had too, he preferred his bow, plus these tunnels were crawling with agents all dying to put a bullet in his head. Sneak attacks were much more fun anyway.

The thick muddy water sloshed at his feet as he stalked forwards, staying close to the wall in order to blend in with the background. When he got within three meters of the two agents, he released his first arrow, hitting the one agent on the shoulder. He didn't want to take him out immediately – he was angry at Natasha for running off and getting caught and needed to vent his frustration. Hawkeye slammed his fist into the first mans jaw, causing him to reel backwards and clutch at the wall. Whirling, he slammed his foot into the other mans chest, jabbing his elbow backwards as the first agent descended on him once more.

Clint grunted at he felt a sharp kick to his ribs, but withstood the pain long enough to slam one of the agents against the wall, releasing a second arrow straight into the man's chest. The agent slid down the wall, presumably dead. The last agent was running at him. Clint ducked, and the agent went sprawling into the cold water. Kicking his back, Clint towered over him, grimacing. He looked to both the agents. One was dead, and one was out for the count. He bent down to check the agents pulse and winced, God, his ribs really hurt.

Making to leave, Hawkeye raised a calloused hand and swiped it across his forehead. Sweat was trickling, leaving tracks across his dirt-covered face. Instead of heading up the manhole, he reached down and swiped one of the agent's walkie-talkies. Now he had the advantage. As an afterthought he unloaded their guns, pocketing their ammo. If the unconscious one woke up, he wouldn't be able to shoot him.

Checking the area around him Hawkeye took off down another tunnel. He wanted to check his ribs but he couldn't stop just yet – not until he'd found a safe place to rest. He rounded the corner and came to a T-section; to the left of him he spied three more agents. His ribs were still hurting, and he really wasn't up to another fight, so he slunk off down the corridor to his right hoping to avoid as much trouble as possible. After walking for about 5 minutes, he noticed a small alcove. It was far enough out of the way that it would be almost invisible to the untrained eye. Elevated slightly, it gave Clint the perfect advantage. Now he could tend to his injuries without any disruptions.

Hawkeye slung his bow onto the ledge and hauled himself up, which proved to be exceedingly painful due to his bruises. Panting slightly, Clint slumped down against the wall and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. He took deep breaths in an attempt to calm his erratic breathing. Before searching for his bandages which were located at the very bottom of his backpack, he pulled out the walkie-talkie and tuned in to the nearest signal. Reassured that he was a good distance away from the nearest enemy, he set it down next to him and rifled through the contents of his bag.

He yanked out a reel of white bandages and rolled up his black t-shirt slightly. He poked at his ribs gingerly and found that the right hand side was starting to swell up slightly. Nothing was broken though, so he wasn't completely useless. It took him about three minutes in total to awkwardly wrap the bandages around his torso. He groaned. Fury was going to be really mad. He'd only just recovered from his last mission.

Grabbing his bow and slinging it over his shoulder he dropped down from his ledge. The water splashed loudly as he landed, and he cursed under his breath at his carelessness. He stood stock still, listening. Content that no one had heard him, he continued down the tunnels. Turning the corner he spotted a lone guard standing in front of him. He was talking non-stop into his own radio, keeping in contact with his team mates at all times. There was no possible way for a surprise attack. There were no shadows in this stretch of tunnel to provide cover, and his ungraceful knack of splashing through the water would give him away instantly. He pulled out his bow, and loaded it.

He checked the arrow was secure, before lining it up with his target. Quickly, he clicked on the walkie-talkie he acquired in an attempt to estimate how many guards were nearby. It took the radio quite a while to tune in, so he guessed that there was a chance he could get away from this tunnel before they checked up on the soon-to-be-unresponsive agent. They were bound to notice he had stopped talking. Throwing his walkie-talkie into his backpack, he let the arrow loose.

The man dropped to his knees instantly as the arrow came into contact with his chest, but not before whispering one last thing into his radio – Clint's current location. Clint blanched. All the agents in the tunnel were now swarming to this passageway, there was no way out.

No longer caring about the noise he made he sprinted off down the tunnel, his eyes desperately searching for a way out. He could hear voices behind him reverberating off of the walls. He was not prepared for this. Hawkeye was used to being above the ground, watching the action unfold beneath him as he sat high up in his nest. Unfortunately this underground tunnel system had been the only way of infiltrating the building where Natasha was being kept.

Blood pounded in his temples. Clint was just turning around to face the group of agents on his tail when he spotted it. A way out. He almost jumped up and down with joy at the sight of the rusting metal vent in the top right hand corner of the tunnel. He ran up to it and latched on, reaching for the screws that fastened the corners to then wall. They were so damaged the practically crumbled in his hands. Throwing the grate down into the water, he heaved himself up and through the tiny gap, disappearing just before the agents arrived.

Clint stood up, brushed himself down and looked up. He was standing in a large white room filled with security guards, all of which were looking directly at him, their guns trained on his chest.

Shit.

Was it too late to go back into the tunnel?