Avengers

All the Difference

Chapter One

The first time Clint saw her, she stood with a group consisting of two diplomats, a senator, his wife and one other. She'd been hanging on the arm of a prince with ties to a Columbian drug lord-also in attendance. As much as he wanted to take out the drug lord, his target was the prince. Taking out one or the other would collapse the cartel's business structure stopping them in their tracks. Not that they wouldn't pick up and move elsewhere, but at least for a while, the corridor would be closed down and the drugs wouldn't be on the streets. It would only delay the inevitable, but if it saved even a handful of kids and adults, he'd done his job.

Their eyes met and each knew the other. Not their name, country of origin or what side they were on, but on the inside where their real selves hid from the rest of world. Kindred spirits. With a nod, he let her know. Her only response was to sip from the champagne flute in her left hand, lower her thick lashes and turn her back on him. A dismissal or to show disdain, he couldn't tell without a closer inspection.

Clint hadn't come here to make new friends though her dress created within him the urge to get to know her better. Strapless, it fitted her like a second skin down to her thighs where it lay in flurries down to the floor. Lace and sparkling accents drew the eye when she moved. Her long brown hair was worn up exposing the length of her neck and showed off the necklace and earrings that could've single-handedly relieved the national debt of a small country.

Using the name Robert Cleary, he'd come to the party with one of his contacts on his arm: an independent defense coordinator who had formerly been nothing more than a cog in an arms dealer's machine. After Clint had taken the man out, Mia had assumed command and had put them to work with a new focus which had eventually made her one of the richest women in her country. Not that Clint knew which country she'd come from.

By morning, the prince and the drug lord were dead. His mission had been the prince and she had obviously eliminated the drug lord. Afterward, he returned to the US and she went to wherever she lived when not cozying up to a man who made his fortune from other people's misery.

~~O~~

The next time they met was nearly a year later at São Paulo Fashion Week. Only this time they weren't at a party. It was the middle of the night and they'd both chosen the same parking garage as a vantage point from which to spy on their targets in the hotel across the street. Clint took a moment to admire her beauty. Even with her hair stuffed up under a knit cap, she was attractive, though he would never be deceived by looks. This woman was deadly and not afraid to let him know it. He'd have to tread lightly.

He completed his recon and she hers, both giving the other a wide berth out of professional courtesy. When finished, he climbed over the parapet and made his way to ground level. At the corner, he turned toward the safe house and just ahead, there she was. She was dressed in a skin-hugging black jumpsuit with boots instead of heels. Her hair was red and short rather than brown and long, but he'd recognize that walk anywhere. A strut with a little runway vamp thrown in, making her seem less haughty, more approachable. If that's possible, he thought. If he were stupid enough to hit on her, he'd most likely end up in the city's morgue as a John Doe. No one would know where he was, and he would be doomed to spend eternity in a pauper's grave at the edge of town. They would have to get a few things straight if the two of them were to continue this strange little dance. He couldn't let her keep popping up during one of his ops, getting in the way or distracting him.

On the way in, he'd seen her take out the guards and had used their absence to his own advantage. This wasn't the first time he'd arrived somewhere in her wake, though they hadn't actually seen each other the last few times. Didn't need to. Her reputation preceded her. In his opinion, she had too many unwarranted deaths to her name. A name that struck fear in the hearts of many who heard it. Black Widow. Clint found the name apt. She would cozy up to a mark and he would be dead within hours. Days at the outside.

Clint jogged to the corner she'd turned and found himself on the ground looking up at her kneeling over him. She had one hand around his throat and the other upraised to deliver a blow that could maim or kill. "Why are you following me?"

Her voice was smooth, unaccented. Even tinged with a growl of irritation he liked the slight purring edge it had as she spoke to him in French. "I'm not. We're just going in the same direction."

"Did Petrovitch send you?"

"Don't know anyone by that name." Not wanting to hurt her, Clint didn't retaliate for the attack. Not yet. "Wanna let me up?"

She didn't immediately release him, her hazel eyes searching his. The wrist of her upraised hand glowed as energy surged. He'd heard about those weapons. Widow's Bites they'd been dubbed by those who had been unlucky enough to experience their sting. The flame of distrust burned in her gaze, but she did release him. "You've never heard of Ivan Petrovitch?"

With all sincerity, Clint shook his head as he stood. "No. Are you in trouble? Let me help."

"Don't need your help." Her words were clipped, angry.

The shrill reverberation of police sirens came near as did the sound of running footsteps. Clint turned to run. "Cops. Let's get out of here."

Instead of following him, she grabbed his hand dragging him into the doorway of a long closed storefront. The windows hadn't been washed in at least a decade, the brown paper covering the inside of the glass faded white from the sun.

He put his hands up to keep from falling against her making it appear that they were having a private moment alone. When he opened his mouth to protest, her arms snaked around his neck and pull him down into a kiss. The first time he'd seen her across the room, he'd sensed a deep well of passion. Her responses when he returned the kiss with equal intensity proved him right.

The police pounded around the corner and kept going, several of the men making off-color remarks about their presence in the dark. As soon as they were gone, she pushed him away. Her eyes were wide and chest heaving, as was his.

Clint backed up a step, rubbing a hand down his face. She turned her back on him almost as if she were dismissing him. A moment later the door opened. She stepped daintily over the threshold and when he didn't immediately follow, she took him by the hand and dragged him inside.

Her hand came up to cover his mouth, one finger across her lips to indicate silence. The puzzled stare he shot at her changed to shock when she shed her jacket then helped him off with his. They stood there looking into each other's eyes.

Slowly so as not to startle her, Clint's hands came up to caress her shoulders sliding towards her neck and up to frame her face. He leaned forward to press his mouth to hers, parting his lips when she sought entrance.

Her arms snaked around waist, using that leverage to pull him with her towards the far corner of the abandoned store. His mind cleared just for a moment and he realized that this must be one of her safe houses. Now that he'd seen it, this would also be the last time she came here. As soon as he was gone, she'd clear out.

A thin mattress lay in the corner. Though it was old, the bed clothes and blanket were clean. Clint toed off his shoes and she did the same. Then, when she yanked his shirt from his waistband, he wrapped her in his embrace and tumbled them onto the mattress, rolling over so that she was lying along the length of his body. Her lips broke from his as she sat up, her backside pressing down on his thighs. Crossing her arms, she grasped the hem of her top lifting it quickly over her head and tossing it aside, uncovering the fact that she wore nothing underneath. That was the last coherent thought Clint had for some time.

~~O~~

When he awoke just before dawn, he was alone. He made a fast and thorough search, relieved when he found she hadn't taken his weapons or his ammo. Dressing quickly, he left the store by the alley door and returned to his own safe house near the park.

He checked that all the windows and doors were locked, set the alarms then flopped onto the bed fully dressed not waking up until his alarm rang at six in the evening. Going to the tiny kitchen, he dumped a can of chunky soup into a disposable bowl, covered it with a paper towel and put it in the microwave. Shedding his clothes, he climbed in the shower, getting out just as the microwave dinged.

With the towel around his waist and water still dripping from his hair, Clint ate the lukewarm soup as he walked back to the bedroom. In between bites, he got dressed and packed for his return home.

After carrying the trash to the incinerator down the alley, Clint returned for the bag and his bow case. By midnight, he was on his way back to the US sitting in first class. When he landed at La Guardia, he stopped in the bar for a quick snack and a beer, listening to the news program with only ten percent of his attention until he heard the name of the hotel where his target had died.

Smoke still drifted through the air though it looked as if the São Paulo fire department had everything under control. The correspondent, an Asian woman with short dark hair, stood at ground level with the hotel as a backdrop.

"…the authorities here in São Paulo have just informed us that one of the deceased is none other than Italian clothing designer, Federico Pisani. However, the designer was already dead before the fire started having been pierced through the heart with a purple arrow. I'm told this is the calling card of an assassin known only as Ronin. At this time, there is no description of the shadowy figure as no one has even seen him. He comes and goes without a sound leaving death in his wake.

"Also dead are industrialist Viktor Haugen, his wife, supermodel Giacomina Toldo, and their two children." A photo of the family in happier times flashed up on the screen. "Nine-year-old Mikayla and six-year-old Darius were found in the second bedroom of their suite having died in their sleep of smoke inhalation."

Movement in the background caught Clint's attention, the rest of what the reporting was saying fading into the background. A woman was standing with a group of people watching the drama unfold. Unexpectedly, she turned and angrily pushed her way through the crowd and was gone. Though the resolution wasn't great, he'd still recognized her as the Black Widow, and the woman who had used him to relieve a bit of tension one night. It had been a massive boost to his male ego, but he wasn't so arrogant as to think it would ever happen again.

~~O~~

Extending his hand, Clint helped Mia from the back of the limo. She gave instructions to the driver and he pulled away just as another arrived. Tugging on his cuffs, he appeared to be completely engrossed in the process while at the same time checking out the newest arrivals for his target. The man always arrived fashionably late which meant he would be here any moment.

The uniformed greeter opened the door of a snow white limo and a slender leg extended out onto the sidewalk, the foot barely covered by sandals with four inch heels. They were attached to her feet by only two narrow straps, one around her slim ankle and the other across the top of her foot just behind the toes. Then came its mate, the slit in her midnight blue dress exposing the length of her leg up to the top of her thigh. A thigh he recognized.

One long fingered hand floated in the air and was taken by the greeter to help her stand. The single shoulder dress was covered from top to bottom in sequins the same color as the dress giving it depth and sparkle. A slight sweeping train added flair and style.

Clint's eyes traveled up to the fitted bodice and past to the diamonds and platinum that surrounded her neck and adorned her ears. When one hand came up to brush at the few strands of hair trailing down her temple, he saw the brilliance of a matching bracelet.

Startled, Clint saw the familiar face surrounded by long blonde hair and blue eyes looking out at the world. Those eyes scanned the crowd as they made their way inside the mansion, not even pausing when they passed him. And he didn't blame her. The beard he'd grown for this op obscured his most prominent features, his dimples.

Mia touched him on the arm and he reluctantly turned from his contemplation of the second assassin, giving his date all of his attention. The mansion was so big it looked more like a hotel than someone's home. On the upside, Mia had been invited to stay the night, and as her escort he was automatically included in the offer. It would give him plenty of time to carry out his self-imposed mission. The owner of the home wasn't the target, but one of his guests was. And as luck would have it, the man was on a separate floor in the same wing.

Hours later, Clint was introduced to a group of people. One of which was his target and the other the assassin he'd encountered on several occasions, the woman known only as the Black Widow. He briefly thought of tricking her into taking out his target for him, but dismissed that thought because the only way to know it had been done right was to do it himself.

The man making the introductions was the owner of the home, Greek shipping magnate Dennis Panagos standing with his wife, Ella. "May I introduce Artyom Drakov, his daughter, Irina and her fiancé, David Rollins, my son, Michael and his friend, Marie-Thérèse Goubert. Everyone, this is Mia Sinjin."

"A pleasure to meet all of you." Mia smiled up at Clint. "And this is Robert Cleary."

At least now Clint had a name for his adversary. With a smile, he shook hands with the men and kissed Irina's hand. When he came to Marie, he brushed his lips over her knuckles, speaking to her in flawless French. "You look familiar, Mademoiselle Goubert. Have we met before?"

The eyes he knew to be hazel took on a slightly dangerous gleam as she reclaimed her hand, answering him in the same language, "That is not likely, Monsieur Cleary. This is my first visit to Crete."

"My mistake." He smiled humbly, holding up his empty glass, he switched back to English. "Would anyone else care for a refill?"

Clint took orders then to his surprise, Marie gave him a stunning smile. "I will go with you."

At the bar, Clint gave the drink list to the bartender. "And one dirty martini with two olives." Marie accepted her drink, taking one small sip. Clint had seen her do the same thing earlier then ditch it. Obviously she wanted to keep a clear head for the coming festivities. She bit one of the olives from the small plastic sword and chewed it.

While they waited for their order to be filled, Marie looked out over the swirling mass of humanity as if bored by everything. "Drakov is mine."

Clint didn't know which surprised him most. The fact that she knew his reason for attending the party or that she spoke to him in Russian. He returned the favor. "We'll see."

David Rollins had left the group and was now talking to an African man dressed in a black agbada with a matching hat. There was something about Rollins that struck a chord in Clint setting all his senses on alert. For his reluctant companion as well to by the slightest intake of breath when her eyes had followed to where he was looking.

Rollins was Clint's height, perhaps ten years older with short dark hair that had begun to recede. He looked harmless, like an accountant or an IT specialist, but the feeling he'd gotten from the man when they shook hands told him to be cautious. Rollins was just as dangerous as the woman standing next to him. Chancing a glance at Marie, he saw the same suspicion in her eyes. Good. At least they agreed on something.

~~O~~

Listening at the door for the guards to pass, Clint tugged on a pair of leather gloves that had been made specifically for him. His work afforded the luxury of having the best of whatever he wanted though he was circumspect in his personal purchases, living modestly in a fourth floor walk-up. He splurged on security, the tools of his trade and his car, but seldom anywhere else that others might see. To his neighbors and friends, he was Clint Barton, a charter pilot for the rich and famous. But to those with the right connections, he was Ronin, a master archer and assassin for hire. He'd been at this long enough that he could be choosy in the jobs he accepted.

Picking up the black case, he stepped into the hallway. It was dimly lit and empty as he moved from one small patch of darkness to the other staying within the surveillance cameras' blind spots until he reached the hidden passage. Easing the door open, he stepped inside and shut it without a sound. He'd already scoped this area of the mansion while he'd been "lost" looking for the bathroom. The passage stayed straight for twenty yards then turned. At the end of that passage was a set of stairs that would take him to the secret door that opened into Drakov's room.

As soon as entered the secret passage, the hairs on the back of his neck alerted him to the presence of another. He swung his left arm around to take the person out…and missed! A moment later he found himself slammed face first onto the floor, a strong arm across his neck and a knee in the middle of his back. His strong left arm was twisted behind him as a vaguely familiar voice said, "If I'd wanted you dead, there've been plenty of opportunities to take the shot. Now, I'm gonna let you up, but if you even look at me wrong, I will take you down and when you wake up, you'll find yourself locked in a place that makes Gitmo look like a trip to Disney World."

The pressure disappeared and Clint was on his feet again. Irina's fiancé stood before him dressed just as he was in a black turtleneck, slacks and leather gloves. One finger at a time, Rollins pulled the gloves off and shoved them into his back pocket. Clint didn't offer to shake hands and neither did Rollins. It was what he said next that surprised the archer.

"My real name is Agent Phil Coulson with the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. SHIELD."

Clint's only reaction was the lift of one eyebrow. "What's this about?"

If what the agent had to say didn't hold his interest, he'd be on his way with a "thanks, but no thanks." Coulson gestured for Clint to have a seat then made himself comfortable on the floor across from him.

"We have a proposition for you."

"I'm listening." Making a big show of being relaxed, Clint pulled off his gloves and waited for Coulson to get to the point.

A blood curdling scream split the air, the sound of footsteps on the main stairs then in the hallway ended with the babble of voices, all of which was ignored by both men. Only Clint's eyes twitched as the cries of a hysterical woman came closer, passed by their hiding place and were cut off by the closing of a door.

A short time later, Clint heard the word astynomia, the Greek word for police. By the time sirens could be heard, Clint was back in his room, Coulson having given him much to think about as he stared out the window.

Going into the bathroom, he stripped out of his clothes to pull on pajama pants and a T-shirt. Rather than disturbing Mia by crawling back into bed with her, he took the blanket folded on top of the antique chest at the foot of the bed and lay down on the love seat with his feet hanging off the end.

The next morning, the staff brought breakfast in bed for all the guests, and when he finally ventured out for a walk in the garden, he ran into Marie. She was lightly trailing a finger over the petals of bright red anemones. He stepped at her side as if he too found the flowers fascinating. "Your name isn't really Marie, is it?"

The left side of her mouth lifted in a half smile. "No more than yours is Robert…or is it Ronin?"

"What should I call you?" She flicked her eyes to him them back to the flowers, but said nothing. "Clint." There was no answer for a long time then she turned to go, and he resisted reaching out to stop her. "I told you my real name. It's only fair you tell me yours."

Michael, the son of the owner, waved from the upper balcony. Over her shoulder, she said, "Natalia," then hurried away.

TBC