IMPORTANT NOTE: This fic is based on the NOVEL American Assassin, NOT the film. This is important because a) my characterization is bound to be different from the movie, and b) Kennedy's hair is red in the book, which ends up being an important plot point.

I actually wrote this a few years ago, before the movie came out. A lot of it's crap & I was going to rewrite it, but I'm heading off to college & was afraid it'd be ages before I could. So forgive the crappy parts & I hope you enjoy the good parts!

"Of course, this horror show goes down on a moonless night," Natasha Romanoff grumbled.

She was stationed in the lee of a derelict livestock barn, peering blindly into the oppressive darkness that blanketed the rural landscape. The night was muggy and languid; not a breeze stirred at this unreasonable hour. The only signs of life on the desolate property were the chirping of crickets and the occasional call of a nocturnal creature.

Barton's familiar chuckle sounded in her ear. "Well, we've had worse," he said. "Remember that time in Leipzig—golf ball-sized hail?"

Romanoff groaned at the memory Barton laughed again. "Don't remind me. Still, at least we could see the target." She lifted her damp hair off the back of her neck and exhaled. "Right now, I could deal with some hail if it meant we'd be out of this heat."

"Can't be long now," Barton said hopefully.

Romanoff leaned back against the crumbling brick wall. "You really think Tarif's gonna show?"

"Well, he could've planted bad intel again," Barton replied. "Still, you tail somebody long enough, you're bound to run into 'em at some point."

"No sign of him, though?"

"Not from where I'm standing."

Romanoff squinted at the roof of the deserted farmhouse where he was positioned. "And you can actually see the ground from up there."

"Thanks to the heat-vision goggles, yes."

Romanoff shot him a peevish scowl he couldn't see. "I still think I should be the one using those. I'm the one who'll be engaging him."

"Nat, a sniper can't do his job without a visual," Barton said in a falsely scandalized tone. "Bring your own goggles next time."

Romanoff rolled her eyes. "Barton, even you didn't bring any. McLane probably left those in the van after San Quentin."

"And as a wise man once said, finders keepers. Plus, I need them for surveillance."

Romanoff rolled her eyes and flicked her middle finger at him. "Hey, Barton. Surveil this."

"Ooh, genius comeback," he teased, an impudent smile in his voice.

Romanoff snorted and pushed off the wall. "Hey, how much longer do we need to stick around this hellhole?"

"Well, if our target doesn't show within the next hour, I say we call it quits."

"Copy that," Romanoff agreed, starting around the side of the barn. "I'm gonna circle around once more."

She moved silently through the long, soft grass, staying close to the sturdy wall. Not a breeze or creature stirred in the darkness, and she listened intently for the slightest noise. Normally, her limited vision would have given her a sense of vulnerability, as she had only the vaguest idea of her surroundings. Instead, she felt only the familiar sense of security that she always felt when her partner was near.

She had reached the opposite end of the building when Barton's voice sounded through her comm, suddenly tense and professional.

"Widow! I've got a reading. We have a live one, your eight."

Romanoff whirled, shifting immediately into recon mode. "How far out," she murmured, her eyes flickering across the silent yard.

"About twenty yards. He's over by the smokehouse, facing me."

"Has he made me yet?"

"Unsure. Suggest you circle around and attack from behind."

The pair maintained radio silence as Romanoff traced a wide circumference around the smokehouse. Her footsteps were quick and noiseless on the springy grass, and within seconds, she was coming up on the small building from behind.

Romanoff's eyes strained to see movement. "I need details," she whispered, slowing her steps as she approached.

"He's crouched on the south side, front corner. I could try for a hit, but he's far enough back that the wall blocks him from my range; we got a better shot on the ground. Remember, we're taking him in, not down, so don't kill him if you can help it."

"Roger."

Romanoff reached the building. Stealthily, she edged along the wall until she knew she must be within a few feet of her target.

Staring through the dark, she was able to distinguish the faint shape of a man, crouching down near the front of the building.

Romanoff leapt forward and dealt a perfect knockout punch to the back of his skull.

At least, it would have been a perfect knockout punch. Had Tarif not turned his head at the last possible second.

Rather than meeting the back of his head, Romanoff's fist smacked into the side of his face. This succeeded in snapping Tarif's head around and likely causing considerable pain, but it failed to knock him unconscious.

Tarif's leg swept swiftly around and knocked her feet from under her, landing her flat on her back as he rolled to a standing position beside her. Instantly, Romanoff flipped back to her feet and attempted another knockout blow, but Tarif deflected her kick and went for a hit of his own. Romanoff blocked his punch and tried for one herself, but he grasped her wrist and got her in a joint-lock, jerking her arm toward the ground. Romanoff used the momentum from his pull to swing her legs into a cartwheel; her thighs closed around his neck in midair and they both tumbled to the ground.

Tarif was flat on his back, struggling. Romanoff's thighs were clamped firmly around his throat, and she had a tight grip on his right arm. Romanoff heard him cursing breathlessly, and she stopped short—he was cursing in English.

Her hesitation was all Tarif needed. All at once, he had overturned the hold and was sitting on top of her, using his knees to pin her arms to her sides. He flexed her hands back against his legs to keep her from slipping them free, and his grip was like iron.

"I'm sorry about this," he began cryptically, and then there was a whiz and a thunk. Tarif froze. Then he pitched forward and landed facedown on top of Romanoff.

Barton came jogging up as Romanoff rolled Tarif's body off of her. "Alright?" he asked as she got to her feet, brushing herself off.

"Fine. Knockout arrow?"

"Tranquilizer," he replied. "Though I'd mix it up a little." She heard him approach the body and pull the slim dart out of the man's back. "Well, I guess this is it!" he said more cheerfully. "We finally got him, Nat—the guy who's been bugging us for the past month. You ready for this?" She could hear him fumbling with his utility belt. "Natasha Romanoff, meet Jehu Tarif."

Barton's penlight clicked on. The pale orb of light was an oasis to Romanoff's weary eyes after straining in the dark for so long. The glow shone faintly back onto Barton's gleeful face as he held the light close to Tarif's face. His smile vanished and his eyes widened as he stared down at Tarif's motionless form.

"Nat."

Romanoff stepped forward and looked down at Tarif. Her heart jolted.

A head full of thick, black hair. An attractive, chiseled face. A strong jawline and a light dusting of facial hair to set off the pleasant, rugged appearance.

"Nat, this isn't him," Barton said in a hushed tone. "This isn't our guy."

Romanoff looked up at Barton's white face. He stared back at her, the glow of the penlight reflecting in his shocked eyes.

This had never happened before.

So like I was saying above, I was 15 when I wrote this, so while there is some here that I like, there is also a lot that is horribly cringey. I think this is one of the stronger chapters, but prepare to hear me judging some of my past writing choices in later chapters.

If there's anything here you don't like, don't hesitate to voice criticism! I feel I've grown as an author since I wrote this, so I'm curious to hear your guys' thoughts on what I did badly vs what I did well. :)