Attachment Issues

A Word: Redid the first chapter a bit. Not much was changes, just a few things tweaked now that I own the movie again. It's amazing how much I misremembered.

.


.

Clint agrees to the clusterfuck that turns out to be Budapest the second his feet are on ground in HQ. His ears lighter from the metal he threw out in a trashcan on the street, and his arms scratched red from removing the top layer of skin to get the damn ink off. He agrees too easily for Natasha's comfort, and she forces her way onto the mission the second his back is turned.

That's the only reason Clint wakes up alive in a SHIELD sanctioned hospital a week later. His head aching from too many blows and his skin stretching over his ribs in a way that he knows indicates stitches. Natasha is a dead weight of bones and a plaster cast on his left side in a bed that's not really designed for two people.

They don't talk about that either.

The backlogged paper work and training schedules that follow their release from the hospital is Coulson's very own special brand of mother henning. He doesn't talk about it either. Though Clint has to cancel more than a few extra appointments to see the psych ward that he knows aren't part of the mandatory requirements for all agents.

Coulson gives him a look every time, but doesn't push any further. Clint buries himself in SHIELD and tries hard to not think of his time in LA.

.

.

Clint spends thirty days after his stitches come out alternating between the range and various obstacle courses. Pushing himself hard and breaking records that he and Tasha had set years ago when they both had something to prove. He's aware of the eyes watching him and the awed whispers of the rookie agents who hadn't believed any of the rumor mill coming in while he was away. They'll be making up their own rumors soon enough to throw at the next round of newbies, and Clint knows he's going to rank high up there with Coulson and Fury this time.

On day thirty-one Clint finds all of his access codes revoked. The only authorization he has is to medical and the front door that leads out into the city. The last is a one way access pass.

It takes him three minutes to break into one of the lesser used gyms tucked away in the corner of one of the lab levels. He's five minutes into pummeling an innocent punching bag when Coulson strolls in through the door with a gun in hand.

A tranq gun.

"What," Clint catches the bag as it swings back and holds onto it, ready to use if for cover if needed, "the hell?"

Coulson looks him over with a bland but assessing look. His default expression that's only one of the reasons he rules any poker games he steps into.

"Sir," Clint belatedly adds. The word rusty from how little he's used it lately, but Coulson has earned that title and Clint doesn't begrudge him it.

"You have a choice here, Agent Barton," Coulson says after a tiny, approving nod. "You can go out for a beer, maybe some greasy food, and attempt awkward small talk with the public at large. Or," Coulson holds the gun up. Tilting it so Clint can see the red band around the dart in the chamber that tells all and sundry that the poor sucker hit by it is going to be out for a good day or two. "I can shoot you now, dump you in a seedy hotel in another country, and force you to do all of that just to figure out where you are."

It's not an idle threat. Coulson isn't given to exaggeration and Clint's actually woken up in Scotland a time or two before. Clint maps out an escape route for about five seconds. Moves that'd buy him enough time to run while Coulson loads a second dart. All of it stops cold when he hears a tiny click behind him. Above head level, in the ductwork he'd used to enter the gym earlier. "Et tu?"

Natasha doesn't respond, and Clint doesn't look back up at her. He throws one last violent punch at the bag. Wild and unrestrained, it only makes the pleasant ache that's been building in his knuckles turn sharp and sour. Clint steps back from the bag and rubs his hands over his face harshly. Breathing out harder than usual to try and resist the urge to throw out all his anger and annoyance at the two people he trusts most in the world.

Even if they are the only two people who'll ever understand why he did it, they don't deserve that kind of shit.

"Fine!" Clint brushes past Coulson and out the door. "Fucking fine."

Clint doesn't even bother changing as he walks out into the city. He hasn't worked up a sweat and getting drunk off his ass sounds about perfect.

.

.

Clint doesn't even finish his drink at the first bar. He leaves the minute a well-built man with dark hair and eyes slides up and smiles at him. No. Fuck no, he wasn't going to be that person.

There's a rave going on in the next bar and the collective age of everyone there seems to be about seventeen. Clint ignores the odd looks he gets as he's swallowed up by the crowd of stick thin kids with every color in the rainbow hair except black. He nearly downs his own weight in watered down beer, and fucks a blue haired bartender in the back when the man takes a break.

He passes out feeling a little nauseous in the apartment that Nat maintains but never really uses. He repeats that pattern with slight variations for a week before Coulson relents and allows Clint back into HQ. Things slide back to normal after that, and Clint pretends he's alright with it.

.

.

Clint's working his way through a basket of greasy fries in a sports bar when the chair across from him is pulled out with a loud scrape. Fury slides into it with more ease than should be possible for a man of his intensity. Clint stares as Fury takes a drink from a bottle of microbrew. Eyes studying the pool tables Clint had deliberately turned his back to earlier.

Eyes. Two of them. One with a tell-tale extra shine to it that's somehow more of a mind fuck than it has any right to be.

"Um," Clint stalls as he double checks his surroundings and licks the back of his teeth. Looking for any out of place taste even though he's already screwed if he'd missed something being slipped into his food.

"We," Fury says, pointedly not scratching what must be some heavy duty face putty covering up the worst of the scars around what the eyepatch usually covers, "have a bad situation."

Clint lets a fry fall back into the basket and gives the Director his full attention.

.

.

How Alex Montel had gotten hold of the names of a dozen of SHIELD's top operatives —-most of whom are in very delicate undercover missions—- is Coulson and Sitwell's task. Clint doesn't envy the admin departments that are about to get thoroughly ransacked for those answers. Natasha is heading up the team sent to extract each compromised agent. Getting them out before Montel can use his information to get them killed. Hill is manning the rest of the agency in Fury's absence.

Clint's left scrambling after Fury himself to do on ground damage control when informants cough up the man is maneuvering for control of the family business. Arranging accounts and loyalties with a flare that's hard to believe the elder Montel doesn't notice. There's has a team close to the father and son in France, already primed and ready to step in should the opportunity present itself. Initial intel reports give a low probability to that happening though, the Montel home ground is a small fortress of security measures. One that is overseen by a mess of political entities too numerous to tangle with on such short notice. Analysts have suggested staking out Montel's uncle. A lesser protected target that Montel will have to take out shortly after he makes his move.

Clint spends the flight back to LA wondering why the hell a drug runner is be so interested in dirt on SHIELD and not Fury's words before they separated.

"I want this fucker nailed when he's not expecting it. Before he can open his goddamn mouth and kill our people. I've got the legal side covered," and there's a story there that Clint's still not sure he wants to hear, because anything that's gone so wrong Fury himself steps in has to be world endingly bad, "and I need you to get in on the less legal side," it's unnerving to be stared down by two eyes with Fury's usual glare. To have the man's usual bluntness be delivered by an unscarred face. "Brian Gamble's training and break from the LAPD will get you further than any other agent I can get in there right now."

Clint turns over theories of expansion and arrogance and complete stupidity in his mind as he chooses a by the day motel as far from the familiar parts of LA as he can get. He rolls up into a deal gone bad later that day. Just in time to snag a few grateful and dumb thugs out of police custody, and uses them to get himself in a good position to start feeling things out.

He learns names and faces and supply routes. Keeps an ear out for any rumors that might pertain to any of the Montels. Clint reports everything to Fury at the end of the night and doesn't ask anything about his own tasks as the man blends back into the LAPD. Doesn't ask as Fury brings up names that Clint knows. Passing references that the man throws around as he puts together a trustworthy team he can use.

Clint steers well clear of the police and, when news finally comes in that Montel's father is dead, he makes the mistake of hoping this clusterfuck will be over soon.

.

.

Clint remembers why this such a shitty mission the second he spots Street. Smiling and laughing at some pretty, dark haired woman who isn't Lara. Looking just as good as Clint's been trying not to remember him being.

Seeing Street after half a year of trying to forget him is the punch to the head that Natasha isn't there to deliver for getting stupid and going back to familiar places for more information. Rumors of a new bigwig coming in have turned out to not be connected to Montel at all and Clint has been forced into small talk and rounds of bullshitting over a far too familiar pool table to cover his interest.

The look of honest hope and pleasure that makes Street start to smile is gut wrenching. Half a year apparently enough to erase all the shit Brian Gamble had pulled on Street, and Clint knows that he can't let that go. Can't let the guy get it into his mind that Brian might be his friend again. Might be anything but the bag of shit he really is.

Clint fixes a smirk on his face and closes in on Street and his new pretty lady. Mouth already burning from the shit he's about to say as he opens with something faux friendly.

.

.

"Fury has Montel," Coulson's voice is bland over the phone and Clint can pick up the sharp staccato rhythm of a keyboard being absolutely murdered in the background. An indistinct mumble that just might be Sitwell questioning the ancestry of idiots keeping pace behind him.

"Great," Clint tries not to sound too happy or too hung over as he rolls over in the stale smelling sheets of the bed and looks at the time. Only about five hours since he downed that whiskey bottle and chased it with as much tequila as he could handle without puking. He feels like a hundred miles of flattened roadkill rolled up into a punching bag and set on fire. Not bad, though Nat'd be calling him all sorts of unmanly names in Russian for quitting so soon. "This the recall notice?"

"You haven't seen the news," Coulson states and Clint reads all kinds of reprimands in that one sentence. "Turn on the television and get involved in the treasure hunt. We want you to find the group most likely to succeed and infiltrate them. Our main goal is to keep Montel quiet for now and we can't do that if someone else gets him."

"Understood," Clint lies easily and fishes out the sticky remote for the staticky tv from under the bed. He has to actually get up and hit the thing a few times before having an epiphany and plugging the power cord in.

Street's pissed off face greets him first thing and it takes several seconds for Clint to look away to take in what the far too perky woman narrating the scene is saying before the scene cuts into a close up of Montel's smug smirk as he promises a shitload of money for his freedom.

Clint leaves his room at a run, cursing his fucked up life as he fumbles for the burner cell phone he has. Connecting to the contacts he's already made and trying to get ahead of the shitstorm that's brewing.

.

.

The city is buzzing and there are plenty of idiots in the world who've done stupider things for less money. Hell, Clint had been one of those people once upon a time. He knows how it goes and he isn't surprised in the least.

Clint finds himself swamped in offers from the second he puts out the first inquiry. Gamble has gained himself enough of a rep that everyone wants a piece of him. Most of them are easily ignored. Petty thugs and small time gangs with shaky plans and nothing to back it up. Groups that won't be able to do shit all without serious help.

Clint gets two calls that are more than that.

The first is from a small militia group that's been getting more of SHIELD's attention as they've amassed weapons and talent. They call themselves Human's First or something close enough to it to declare exactly what kinda group they are.

They officially propose that total anarchy is the only way humanity can survive. Unofficially they're conspiracists and racists and a lot of other -ist words that are alarming when combined with a weapons cache. The only thing that's kept them out in the world and not under lock and key is their lack of criminal involvement. Even SHIELD can't shut down a rabid group like them without having something solid to point at. That all changes when Clint gets a call from a man named Benjamin Watts who rambles for a solid half hour about how much change they can make with Montel's prize money.

"Sure," Clint finally agrees, cutting into a slow downward spiral on how genocide of certain groups will only better the world. Clint's just glad not to have to face the man for this rant, because neither he nor Brian Gamble could hide their disdain at this load of shit. "Just tell me what you need me to do and I'll be there."

Clint calls in the details less than a hour later after agreeing to a worryingly solid plan. The fact that Watts has enough pull to get a federal helicopter hijacked by men loyal to him is more than enough evidence in Clint's opinion that the group has become a credible threat. Clint arranges supplies, weapons and ammunition, as he tries to figure out how he can weasel his way from a far off sniper's position to a seat on the helicopter itself.

The second call he gets ends all his planning with a request to meet someone familiar.

.

.

Fury's going to throw a shit fit at misreading a person so badly. Clint can't even find it in himself to be amused by that thought, because he'd been just as wrong.

McCabe had been a weaselly man the few times Clint remembers working with him, but not a crooked one as far as he'd been able to tell. They'd had far too little interaction when Clint was on SWAT for him to have any other impression, and he finds himself thinking that's a damn shame because he really needs more than he has to figure out McCabe's angle here.

"It's a lot of money, yeah?" Clint drawls as he hunches over a damn coffee table shredding a sticky pastry. Between Gamble's punk attitude and the not at all concealing trenchcoat -—seriously?-— McCabe has thrown over his uniform, the two of them are drawing a lot of looks from the young hipster crowd. "Buy yourself a pretty little spot in paradise and not have to worry ever again. Of course I'm interested."

"I thought you would be," McCabe says with a sneer that's all holier than thou. Which is hilarious coming from a man getting ready to sell his entire team out for cash. "That's why we want you with us on this."

"We?" Clint prods. Letting his suspicion show. God would Fury be shitting bricks if McCabe isn't the only one turning traitor. "Who all is in this? Don't tell me you got the sainted Street or his new bitch in on this."

"No!" McCabe shifts and seems to finally notice the attention they're drawing as he drops his voice. "Your ex doesn't know shit, and you don't need to know who all is in on this."

"Bullshit, man," Clint flicks an especially gooey crumb into the other man's hair and smirks as McCabe messes up his perfectly gelled hair to get it out. "You come to me asking me to plan out how we're going to do this, and you don't even want to tell me how many ways we're going to be splitting the reward? That's bullshit, T.J. What's stopping me from going somewhere else and getting a better deal? I got some guys that'll guarantee me half-"

"You'll get half!" McCabe snaps, and the touch of venom in his voice is real interesting. Clint's always pegged him as a calm person. "Half is more than enough for, for what we need to do," and that's a real interesting flicker of his eyes there too. Clint's dying to know what McCabe's angle is. "Now are you in or not? Because the clock is ticking and Montel'll be out of reach by tonight."

Four hours actually. That's when the hijacked helicopter is set to pick Montel up. Gamble will need all of those hours to get his hands on a good enough weapon to take out that helicopter, because that's what McCabe is getting ready to ask him to do. The retrieval will be happening too quick for a good plan to be put into motion otherwise.

"And what," Clint pushes with a cocky smirk that only gets McCabe more visibly riled up, "do you and your mysterious fuckbuddy need to do that's so important anyway?"

"If you cut one head off, two will take it's place," McCabe mutters, and if Clint had been anyone else he wouldn't have heard the man.

"The fuck you say?" Clint grumbles even as he curses in his head. Fucking Hydra. Should've known the sweep SHIELD had made wasn't as clean a they all thought. "Come on, man. Quit being such a secretive little bitch and tell me who else is in on this. Don't want me putting a hole in him by accident, do you?"

It's a gamble, but it's one that Clint's willing to take as he watches McCabe struggle across from him. He doesn't push further on what the man wants to do with the money. He's Hydra. Odds are good that it's not pleasant, and it's something SHIELD would end up stopping even if he had a chance of getting free of this clusterfuck.

"You remember Boxer? Nah, of course you wouldn't. Street's the one who fucked his sister," McCabe finally allows. Lips turning up in a way Clint doesn't like. "You satisfied, Gamble? Or do I got to do a dance number to get you to work with us?"

"I'm sold," Clint leans back in his chair and sucks some of the sticky crumbs off of his fingers. Forget Fury, Coulson and Nat will be so pissed over this. "Alright, lay it on me. What's the plan?"

.

.

Fury swears inventively when Clint gets a hold of him and tells him the bare bones plan he hashed out with McCabe. There's a background hum that Clint places as the precinct. "How sure are you he's Hydra?"

"Almost completely," Clint points and nods over a rifle and the agent trailing him bags it up. Adding more rounds than he'll ever need to the bag of goodies he asked for much earlier in the day. The weapons dealing front is perfect for this situation. Clint didn't even have to pretend he wasn't here for anything but the most illegal shit available on the market. "He's got the weaselly look and attitude of a new recruit though. Bet he was pulled in recently."

Natasha, fresh from her extraction mission, lounges next to the hastily pulled together monitors recording the shitty weaponry SHIELD agents are passing off to the over eager masses below. Each one tagged and very carefully worked over to fail after light use. There's going to be a massive flood of arrests after this, Clint hopes the LAPD are ready to handle it.

"And he named Boxer," it's not a question and Clint doesn't answer it as he decides he's got enough and shrugs the strap of the beaten duffel bag over his shoulder. "There's too many fucking hands in the pot here. Take out the nut jobs flying in Barton, and do what you need to do. I'd rather this dirtbag end up in your hands than anyone else's."

"Roger that, sir," Clint stops next to Nat who's looking over a fast scrolling text feed intently. "Any orders for McCabe and Boxer?"

"I don't give a fuck about them," Fury says immediately in the tone of voice that let's Clint know he'd rather bury them than question them. "I want Montel dealt with before we go snake hunting again."

"Yes sir," Clint says to the dial tone. He hangs up and gives the phone back to Tasha. "Any luck?"

"None," Tasha says with more than a little amusement. "All the rats in the system are swimming up to take the bait and there's not many left who are trustworthy."

"Coulson must be having a field day," Clint drapes his arm over her when she stands up. His hand rucking up her tank as she runs her hands through his hair and leaves a dark and obvious lipstick mark on his neck.

"He's making life hell for various government officials and agencies," Tasha smiles. Small and wicked as they saunter back downstairs. Her body molding to his and her voice taking on an accent even before they're out of safety. "Sitwell sent me a video clip of him giggling over his breakfast today."

Clint's laugh draws eyes but Gamble's sneer turns them all away, and no one even notices the way he bends the pretty little woman into a fake kiss. He leaves the shop totally unnoticed and that's just fine by Clint.

.

.

The plan is simple in the fact that McCabe's left pretty much everything up to Clint to deal with, and that makes his job a hell of a lot easier. Clint leaves the real work of planning to the clearer heads and focuses on hustling to get in place. Fast because none of this is going to matter if he doesn't take down that hijacked helicopter first.

There's a kid waiting for him at the spot Watts had arranged with him. Pinch faced and looking like he was recruited straight out of high school. He's full of nervous energy as he all but falls over himself leading Clint to a van with blacked out windows that just screams suspicion. Clint slouches inside and tunes out the kid's jabbering. It's a repeat of Watts' rant but it's less funny coming from someone so young.

"You fucking serious?" Clint mutters when the kid drives them up a parking garage. The kid blinks at him stupidly and Clint checks the surrounding area one last time. It's a really shitty spot to be hitting anything, but Gamble isn't supposed to be aiming for the helicopter after all. A quick glance at the skyline shows him that the better rooftops are lousy with cops, and he's almost out of time. There isn't going to be a better spot than this. "All right. Let's do this."

The kid goes down hard. Out cold with one punch. He barely has time to settle on the ground before he's hauled up by an agent. Fields, still a rookie as far as Clint is concerned, barks out quiet orders to her team, and Clint leaves her to it. Dealing with Human's First is likely going to fall to her after they get Montel anyway.

Clint goes back to setting up the sniper rifle he snagged just for this part of the mission. It's one that's been set up to his specifications and is only ever really used by him when he can't have his bow. He only has to adjust it a little before settling in behind it and waiting. Scanning the horizon and calculating angles and distances.

It's going to be a hell of a mess no matter how he shoots.

"We have reports of the hijacking," Fields stops to tell him. Her head tilting as she listens to whoever her handler is. Her dark braid flipping over her shoulder and the butt of her rifle as her eyes take in the view Clint's been studying for several minutes now. "The chopper's five minutes out. No way the cops would have gotten word of it in time."

"Well," Clint can hear the thrumming of the blades as the helicopter comes in. The best bet is to wait until they're almost on top of the building, just before coming down to land. It get's the thing out over the streets which are hopefully still on lockdown. He'll only have a few seconds to take it down before it's too close to any of the buildings to risk shooting. "Good thing they've got us watching out for them."

Clint sees the shadow before the nose clears a building that's blocked most of his view. Clint breathes in. Slow and even and shoots.

.

.

It's a hell of a plan.

"There's too much attention on Montel," Tasha explains over the phone. Shouting and something mechanical sounding in the background nearly drowning out her discontent growl. "Even with Fury inside we can't get to him like this."

Clint's thought up and done crazier things, but nothing quite this complicated in such a short time frame.

"We have some leads," Coulson admits and it sounds like the words are being forced out of his mouth at gunpoint. Which speaks volumes about the quality of those leads. Or lack of. "It's better to have him alive at this point in time."

Clint walks into a shell of a house not half an hour after the plan was laid out for him and takes in the group of men he's supposedly hired. They're a few cuts above the regular street thugs and gang members. Mercenaries and hired killers for the most part. Which means he's dealing with actual competence when he starts laying the insanely detailed plan SHIELD has been busting their asses setting. The men nod along and the only questions they ask is about money.

Clint promises enough to keep them open to his orders and not much else. They're all fodder as far as this plan is concerned. Few actual agents will be used and Clint's glad for it. They're playing fast and loose with so many rules that it's bound to bite them in the ass somehow. Gamble grins as the men set off to finish the work SHIELD started when the news hit this morning.

"Ready?" Natasha comes out from one of the sealed back rooms when the last hired muscle is gone. The floors are covered with cords and there's more tech laying around than Clint can identify. Tasha's smile is sharp and mean as she pushes him into a chair and he's immediately swarmed by two techies who look like they haven't left their labs in over a decade. "Sit back and relax. This won't hurt a bit."

Natasha, Clint swears to remember, is a liar.

.

.

McCabe calls as Clint's trying to stop himself from bleeding out through a dozen or so tiny holes in his arms. He's nervous and it shows in his voice as he lays out the LAPD's plan. It's standard fare and fits precisely in with what SHIELD has set out. Clint grunts along and assures the man he's got it all covered. Shooting down McCabe's suggestions and laying out his and Boxer's roles in precise terms that the man agrees far too readily to. It's obvious the man is a goffer in Hydra, and Clint wonders if Boxer is the same. McCabe tries to keep him on the phone when a beep signals another call coming through, and Clint puts the man off with bullshit about getting hired muscle for the next phase of their plan before clicking over.

"You know the plan?" Fury barks before Clint can even say anything.

"Yeah," Clint says as he walks out of the room and into the main part of the empty home. "We got it covered. Anything new I should know about, sir?"

"Just keep your ass covered, and don't pull any punches until we can get Montel," Fury says. Distracted, and Clint can hear Fuller in the background. His voice rising in a way that Clint's surprised to find he actually kind of misses. Just a little. "I'm going to murder this pompous prick if this doesn't end soon."

Clint laughs, and shakes his head when Natasha looks out the door at him. "I think Coulson'd be mad, sir. They really bonded you know?"

"Of course they did," Fury's voice is dry and could set fire to a bucket of water. Fuller's voice gets loud again before Clint gets the dial tone and Tasha's raised eyebrow.

"You got everything you need?" He asks as he slides the phone away.

"For now," Tasha says. She's suited up and armed. Ready to let loose and and looking completely bored with everything going on around her. Her part isn't small, but it's definitely not the usual adrenaline rush she's used for. Normally their positions are switched. Tasha going in undercover and getting up close and personal while Clint supports from a distance. Only occasionally getting in close to the action when things start going down. She doesn't bother hiding the slight worry most people wouldn't notice. "Don't do anything stupid."

"I'd never get outta bed if I did that," Clint grins as starts picking through the gear that's been laid out for him. He takes the warning and the concern and holds it close as he focuses on the Brian Gamble persona. One last time, he tells himself, just once more.

.

.

If Clint was actually running this operation he'd be sweating bullets right about now. There's too many moving pieces out of his direct control for anyone to have any peace of mind. He's not in charge though. That's a job that goes to some thinktank that Coulson's heading up behind the scenes. All Clint has to do is play his little role.

He shakes out a case of the nerves that he doesn't have as a man whose name he's already forgotten monitors radio traffic. Clint hears the chatter in his earpiece as Fury's team draws close. The streets are filled with late night crowds and Clint hopes like hell they'll have the sense to duck and run when the shots start flying.

"Five minutes."

Clint's moving. Out of the backroom of some closed coffee shop and to the darkened door that leads to the road. One hand resting on the door as he looks for the black SUVs to drive past.

.

.

The plan is detailed and specific right down to the seconds in what needs to happen to pull it off. There's still room to wiggle things around though if it's worth the trouble.

Clint sees a chance as he rushes the SUV and he takes it.

McCabe has a gun on the only man in the vehicle not in on the heist -—and the hair is dark and spiky but Clint doesn't think about that-— and it's simple elimination from there. Clint shoots through the dark window and his hired muscle drags Boxer, bloody and already dead out onto the ground. One possible threat down.

And then Clint's facing Street head on once again. Grinning like mad as he ignores the goddamn gutwrenching look in Street's eyes. Shoving a gun into his face and ignoring the man's words as he cuffs him to the steering wheel with a laugh. Keeping the gun pressed tight against Street's vest the whole time to remind him that Brian Gamble isn't any sort of friend to him. Cars honk loudly as another SUV swerves in traffic getting closer and Clint pulls away.

"Let's go!" Clint sprints for the subway and Montel, surprisingly, keeps up. The man's fit for a rich bastard. People scatter with screams and Clint doesn't pause as he reaches the train. The doors sliding shut and the train taking off just in time.

Clint apes for Street's benefit -the man's mad but he needs to be madder- and to get a good look at Fury coming in hot behind the man's heels. Making sure the Director can see the single finger Clint's holding up. Just in case the slight change in the plan slipped past him in the heat of the moment.

Also, so he can say he did it and lived to tell the tale. Clint laughs as the platform slides out of view and turns to walk through the train. Passing terrified hostages before he sees the vivid orange Montel is wearing like a fucking silk robe as he lounges on a seat with a smirk fixed firmly on his face. McCabe across from him. Pale and sweaty as he wrings his hands.

Killing Boxer was a calculated risk. Hydra has two different flavors of recruits. The really loyal ones and the only kind of loyal ones. Clint's counting on McCabe being one of the latter. Loyal to Hydra but not so caring of anyone in his way of promotion, and there has to be something like that on the table for the money Montel's promising. Something to recoup the major losses they suffered when SHIELD pulled the rug out from under them earlier in the year.

The fact that Clint doesn't already have a bullet in his back is a good sign he's right, but the real test comes when he deliberately turns his back to McCabe and Montel. Now that they're not running from an immediate threat. Now that McCabe, still shaky and shocked looking, has had time to think about it.

McCabe does nothing and Clint marks one more box off as the plan moves on.

.

.

The tricky part starts as soon as Clint gets his small group into the storm drains. The tight, dark space that has Montel's lips curling in a sneer.

Clint hasn't been in these systems, doesn't even have a clue about their layout as he turns on his light and looks for the signs he's trusting were left there for him to follow. It's a short trip despite McCabe's minor freak out, and the surprise he finds waiting for him to set up half way through the tunnels.

The mine is a last minute addition that Clint had tried to veto. Explosives just shouldn't be combined with small tunnels like these ones, but he'd been overruled. At Fury's insistence, and what he wants goes. Clint sets it up, correctly, and hopes like hell Fury knows what he's doing as he marks the tunnel with a smoke grenade. It's more danger than what's really needed in his opinion. He doesn't have to lock the exit grate, but what the hell does he know? He gets paid to do what he's told.

He bitches about it though, softly enough that only the transmitter he's wearing can pick it up. Coulson pointedly doesn't reprimand him for it.

.

.

Morse looks horrible. It's impressive what a layer of makeup and a bad dye job can do to a beautiful woman. She bleats and cries out just enough as Clint pulls an agent he's never met before off the plane and pushes her back out of the way. Into the seat where the metal of the plane is thickest, and the force of the coming crash don't throw her against anything too hard or sharp.

It's a consideration she rewards him for by raking her sharp heeled shoes down his shins as he pulls her forcefully out of the plane. McCabe is done. Clint can see that in the way the man huddles in the rear of the plane. Montel crouches as bullets fly and Clint ignores the man. His part in escorting the criminal is done. Fury has it from here, and Clint needs to get his own ass out of the line of fire.

"That rope's not long enough," Bobbi mutters between her shrieks as they stagger to the side of the bridge. "Your fat butt's going to free fall to the ground."

"It's not!" Clint sends a few, wildly off center bullets toward where he can see a stupid spiky head poking around the burning plane. He shoves the end of the rope through the side and swings one leg up and over the concrete railing. "You ready?"

"Do it," Bobbi grits out. Hunkering down in a good approximation of a terrified trophy wife while bracing herself to be used as weight. He'd feel bad about it but it's Bobbi. She's done worse to him even before the divorce went through in the name of completing a mission. "And don't fall on your head. It's damaged enough as it is."

"Love you too," Clint mutter as he drops.

.

.

"Aw, rope," the rope isn't long enough Clint finds out as he dangles way too far up off the ground. Clint grimaces as he eyes the distance between him and a moving -—who the fuck came up with this plan again?—- train. "This is going to hurt."

It does hurt. A lot. Clint rolls off the train with a strangled moan. His knees buckling despite his best efforts when he lands on the ground.

Tasha clothes lines Clint before he can get his breath back and drags him into the shadows away from the bridge. Her hard grip leaves him no choice but to follow her through the train yard. Staggering until he can breathe right and convince himself he hasn't broken any ribs. "Hurry up," she says when he can move without prodding.

There's a shout behind them, the sound of someone else making the painful trip down and Clint will stake all his savings that it's Street. Sirens echo in the distance. The entirety of the LAPD converging on them.

"It's in place, right?" Clint manages to ask as they take a set of stairs at a dead run. "The-"

"Yes," Tasha doesn't expand beyond that and Clint's grateful. The LMDs are creepy as fuck even when it's not Clint's face they're wearing.

There's a van waiting for them in the street. Windows blacked out and back door open as it idles. Under the authentic looking police decals Clint could swear it's the same one he rode in earlier with that militia kid.

If it is, it's already decked out with some sophisticated surveillance systems. Coulson reaches out to turn one of the screens off when they tumble in. Clint catches a glimpse of moving trains and two fighting figures and is glad even as his stomach twists.

"Montel is in police custody again," the older man says. Directing their attention to the shaky cameras of a helicopter showing the bridge as the van pulls out. An orange blur is being escorted to a similar van by someone Clint thinks might be Fury. "We're about to make the switch."

Clint closes his eyes and settles down on the floor. Listening to Coulson's steady voice as he communicates with the team on ground. They easily manage to switch Montel and the second LMD amid the chaos with no one noticing a damn thing.

"What about the Hydra agent?" Tasha asks. She's still standing but the toe of one of her boots keeps nudging his leg. Erratically and without any purpose other than to annoy him as far as Clint can tell. Clint opens his eyes to glare at the back of her head.

"Dead," Coulson replies after a silent pause. "Self inflicted bullet to the head."

Clint snorts. He can hear the finger quotes he knows Coulson is dying to use on that last sentence. Must be a junior agent driving or the man would've done it.

"Happy endings all around," Clint mutters. Curling away from Tasha's feet. "Now when do we get the hell out of here?"

.

.

They get to leave as the sun starts rising. They end up in another private jet that's a good bit larger than the one they'd given to Bobbi, and Clint takes full advantage of it to stretch out after shrugging out of the bulky body armor Gamble had worn. Montel is well secured in the back and refuses to talk as Clint makes himself comfortable.

He'd taken supreme satisfaction in the way Montel's smug face froze when he was brought to the landing strip and realized exactly who had him. Almost a much satisfaction as he got when he laughed in the bastard's face when the man started in on the money again the second the plane started taxiing. Lifting off to escort Montel to a deep, dark hole that he'll never leave again.

"The hell would I do with a million dollars that I can't do now?" Clint spreads his arms wide and grins. His grin, not Gamble's. The sharp and dark thing that he knows matches that spiteful little twist of Natasha's lips that can make grown men tremble. That matches the intentionally blank and cold stare Coulson switches on and off when he needs people to realize who they're really dealing with.

The business look for lack of a better word.

Montel stares. Silent and hard eyed. Burning the three of them in his mind for a revenge that just isn't going to happen. The rest of the flight is blissfully silent.

.

.

Fury returns a week after most of them have settled back into routine. Clint only notices because a scratched photo appears in the quarters he uses more than the apartment he supposedly leases in the city.

Street grins broad and happy from under Brian Gamble's arm. Their pool cues held loosely in opposite hands. It'd been taken a year into the initial Hydra sweep op. Before Clint had been forced to push the man away. Keep him further than arms length to keep him alive.

Clint stares at the photo for a long minute before sliding open the bottom drawer of the tiny desk he has and dropping it in with all the other things he never wants to see again. The drawer rattles as he shuts it. Like the last breath of a dying man.

.

.