The man behind Natasha places a hand on her shoulder as they make their way down the gangway, their breath condensing quickly in the freezing December weather. In the entrance lobby of the airport, there are a few scattered coffee tables and seats. She waits with him there as all the other passengers file out through the hallways, until there is complete silence.
"What the hell are you doing here?" She demands. "You were in Sarajevo this morning. I checked."
"I decided to reroute. I have to keep an eye on you."
She laughs, despite knowing that he isn't joking.
"You have other priorities than minding me."
He raises his eyebrows, and props his elbows on the armrests of the chair.
"You'd be surprised."
"How so?" She sounds genuinely curious, and in no way worried. Her hubris has blinded her, and he has noticed.
"You're getting on all kinds of radars, Nat. People aren't thrilled with the way you've been handling things, and dismissing you from your work would be ridiculously simple for most of them."
"Don't beat around the bush, Coulson. They want to kill me?"
Phil nods, compressing his lips. His fingers tap a steady rhythm on his knee as he surveys Natasha. She is sitting casually, hopelessly ignorant. He is worried.
"Just...watch out. OK? One more botched case and you could be in for it."
She dismisses this with a wave of her hand. This case is simple, anyway. Textbook. Even Coulson has to admit that little to nothing can go wrong.
"It's just a basic interrogation, Phil. I'll be in and out by midnight. No blood, no one gets their hands dirty."
"Fine. Just keep in mind that they might have eyes on you."
Her watch reads eight in the evening, and the small but welcoming hotel room is a mess. She is wearing her formal clothes, the outfit and the makeup that accentuates her features. This enables her to use her good looks to her advantage. Her near empty go-bag lies by the door, its contents splayed out on the bed and on the floor. She had never understood Coulson's penchant for neatness, and besides, she would only be staying for the night. At most.
Her clutch carries her essentials- lipstick, phone, and her gun. She most likely wouldn't need this tonight; with a bit of persuasion the target should give her the information she needs without too much messiness.
The target is the stereotypical billionaire involved with dangerous people; he is pompous, arrogant, and ready to give up invaluable secrets to the first pretty girl who flutters her eyelashes at him. These dangerous people only kept him around for his wealth, and they usually kept at a safe distance so as to avoid letting him discover out unnecessary information. This makes singling him out even easier; they wouldn't even notice him being led away by a strange woman, much less would they care. But this is where they are at fault, because this billionaire would be of much more use to Natasha than they had anticipated. This case will be a cinch.
András Farkas smirked at the beautiful redhead making her way towards him. Her dark green cocktail dress suited her wonderfully, her hair styled in perfect waves flowing down to her shoulders. Most of the guests in the ballroom turned to look at her, some looking a little awestruck.
"Hello, there." She greets him, flashing her winning smile.
"Russian." He remarks. "Saint Petersburg? Most of my Russian guests came here together."
"Stalingrad. I came here alone. I am Natalia Romanova." She extends her hand elegantly. "And I believe that I already know who you are."
His cocky grin makes another appearance.
"I'm sure that you do, Natalia-..."
"Romanova?" A voice interrupts him. A man in a grey suit, flanked with bodyguards, saunters over to her. He gently strokes the side of her face, the ballroom having gone deadly quiet. "Not like you to use one of your better known aliases, Miss Romanoff." He croons in his thick accent. "Well, this is no small-scale organization you're dealing with here, Natasha. We have been keeping tabs on you since you arrived in Budapest at...what was it?" He turns to his right-hand man. "Seven twenty this evening?"
Natasha winces. This is not going to end well, especially with the large amount of civilians between her and the exit. Her eyes flicker around the room, searching for the nearest escape route...
"Na-ah." The man whispers. "An innocent man, or in this case, an innocent woman, never flees." He takes out his gun from his ankle holster, and proceeds stroking her face, this time with the cold metal barrel of his weapon.
"I do not want any trouble." She hisses.
"Really?" He chuckles. "Then prove it. Open your bag."
And she does. She fishes the semi-automatic from her clutch, and has her finger on the trigger before he has even realised that she has responded. Farkas, thoroughly alarmed, is backing off slowly, hands raised.
"Don't make this worse than it needs to be." She whispers.
He laughs coldly, the sound echoing off of the stone walls.
"You made this worse than it needs to be by showing up tonight. And I know that you are not going to pull that trigger, Romanoff. I know what you have to lose" His eyes are beetle-like, glinting maliciously as he witnesses the impact that this has on her. "Your job, your friends, the place you have always belonged. Not to mention your life."
He raises his gun, but not before Natasha does. The panic created after the gunshot is worse than the actual firing. The grey-suited man lies bleeding on the floor, Natasha's cover is blown, and people run screaming in all directions.
She sighs. Coulson will not be too pleased.
From his perch on the upper balcony, Clint Barton can see everything. His earpiece connects with the office on the first ring, and Clint is put on the phone with the Director straight away.
"You were right, boss. She blew it." He murmurs. A sigh answers him.
"I was hoping that she wouldn't. Coulson is fond of her." Fury sounds tired, and frankly- disappointed.
"Does Coulson know the plan?"
"Of course not. I let him follow her, though. He warned her, and..." He mutters the next sentence sadly. "...it gave him a chance to say a goodbye. Of a sort."
"So do we continue, Director?"
"Continue as planned, Barton."
Clint's bow and arrow remain in the sheath, and he loads his revolver. It is not his weapon of choice, but it will be more efficient. Natasha, now his target, has only just run outside. She will be easy prey.
Clint walks along the balcony, and the cold breeze would be skinning if it were not for his leathers. He locks his eyes on his target, who is...talking to a woman holding her young child. He sighs, as he can't get a clear line of sight until the woman leaves. But that is bearable. He has time.
After ten minutes, the woman is still talking to Natasha, her distraught expression visible even from the balcony. Her façade is fooling the woman, who looks sympathetic. Eventually, the two women and the child leave together, Natasha thanking the woman for her kindness. Apparently, she is staying over at her house tonight.
Damn it. He was hoping that it wouldn't have to lead to this. Hand-to-hand combat is less than appealing.
But it must be done.