Hey guys! Here's chapter 2. I couldn't wait to write more, however I may have finished this when I was sleep deprived so there may be a chance of a few simple wording mistakes or so. My trusty spellcheck should have eliminated the worst. (Don't worry, I'll go over the text in detail as soon as I can and then fix the imposters) Feel free to review and tell me if you like the story so far!

They were coming back.

She heard the muffled sound of tires halting on dirt. Engines. Then they stopped. There was shouting, a lot of it. She couldn't make out any words, they were too far away. Nevertheless she could make out one voice in particular, being louder than the rest. That voice seemed to be giving orders, quick, abrupt sentences. She shivered. It was cold in the room they locked her in.

Natasha Romanoff closed her eyes and took a deep breath, leaning back against the cold stone wall. Then she opened them again. Whenever she opened them she saw the same dull room. It was about the size of a bathroom. The floor was carpeted but it was a dirty, untended kind. No one seemed to vacuum here. The room was windowless and the only entrance was a solid wooden door. She had tried to kick the door in but the only result was a throbbing foot. At the bottom of the door was a cat flap. She doubted that they owners of this house had a cat but in that way they supplied her with food and water. They had kept her alive. For now.

The spy hated being helpless and it happened more often than she liked to admit. Again, she closed her eyes, the events of the past days reaching back to her.

It was exactly a week ago when she was driving her motorcycle on a nearly deserted highway. It was around noon on a weekday, Tuesday to be exact, and she was simply enjoying the wind on her face. She drove without a helmet, which was foolish, but she was so certain of her being able to drive without one that she rarely took one with her. After a while, however, her motorcycle started to make unnatural sounds up until where it slowed down and eventually stopped. She'd let out a string of curses in both English and Russian as she stepped off the bike and pulled it off the road to check what was wrong. In the distance she heard another engine approaching which she chose to ignore. It was a highway after all.

Natasha was about to check the wheels when she saw the black unmarked car approach her in the corner of her eye. She froze, alerted by the lack of details. What unsettled her even more was the fact that the car was slowing down. The redhead was sure that whoever drove the car was not slowing down to pick up a helpless motorcycle driver.

Now the car stopped, about a hundred feet from her. She ducked behind the motorcycle, acting as if she were focused on the reparation, but she still subtly watched the car. The driver's door opened and a man wearing a black suit and a buzz cut emerged, his eyes fixed on the motorcycle. Behind him the passenger door opened and an equally dressed man stepped out of the car. The way the two were keeping their hands close to their pockets unnerved her.

Another door opened and another man came into her view. He also was wearing a suit but it was tan, probably Italian. He had curly black hair and a face like an eagle. A gasp escaped her lips. She recognized that man in an instant. His name was Dario Pizarro, a Peruvian businessman. He had made his money by performing human trafficking next to his usual business and he occasionally used his influence to get rid of competition by directing his men to kill them. Here and there Pizarro had pulled the trigger himself. It had been years since she last saw him, which was one of her first missions as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent. It took her and Clint Barton days to locate him and track him down. The mission ended with his bullet in her leg and her's in his shoulder when they handed him over to the government. Natasha recalled reading that a couple of months ago his prison cell was found empty with no trace of him.

She had bit her lip, mentally going through the options she had. The men were clearly armed and they outnumbered her. She herself was carrying a small handgun but there was no way that'd she'd be able to hit them all without them hitting her too. Her bike offered her only a little cover but it sure wasn't bulletproof. If she'd run she would end up as Swiss cheese- with many holes in her back. Hiding was no option either. She was certain that they knew it was she behind the bike. Why else would they all exit the car? Natasha considered shooting Pizarro just to get rid of him but she imagined that as soon as she popped up behind the bike with a gun in her end she would end up dead.

That only left her with one option. She took out her phone, quickly unlocked it and looked for a contact.

"Miss Romanoff," someone shouted. "Get out from behind the bike. We are armed."

Her breathing became quicker and she could hear the blood rushing through her head. Natasha found the contact and did her best to type quickly.

Clint. Trace my phone. Pizarro has me cornered. Black unmarked car. Help.

"Miss Romanoff! I will count until three. Then I will shoot," the same voice shouted. It wasn't Pizarro's, she knew that.

Natasha took a deep breath and looked behind her. A slope led downhill and tall grass covered the ground.

"One."

She weighed the phone in her hand and drew back her arm.

"Two."

Natasha threw the phone as far as she could downhill, hearing a faint thud as it landed somewhere in the grass.

"Thr-"

"Okay!" she shouted.

Silence.

Slowly she got up, hand above her head, showing that she had no intention to shoot at Pizarro or his men. Both of them had their guns fixed at her head while Pizarro was standing next to them, a smug grin painted across his face.

"Step out from behind the bike," the man to Pizarro's right barked. He looked like a bulldog.

Natasha did as she was told and fully shuffled into their view, hands still above her head. The other man stomped towards her, putting the gun into its holster. Bulldog stepped closer as well as if to demonstrate that there still was a gun that could kill her as much as two guns could. Suit number two took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and fixed one of the loops on her wrist. Then he pulled both arms behind her back and fixed the other loop on her other wrist. Natasha kept a straight face, not allowing Pizarro to see her annoyance.

"Move," the other man scoffed, his voice deep and menacing. He pushed her slightly so she stumbled ahead towards the car. Pizarro smiled and opened his arms as if he was welcoming an old friend.

"Miss Romanoff, how great to see you," he purred his eyes scanning her from head to foot.

"Pizarro," she replied coldly. "How's the shoulder?"

He bared his teeth at her as if he were about to hiss. "Oh, it's doing well, how nice of you to ask," he said dramatically. His voice still carried a faint Spanish accent.

"Yeah. What do you want?" she said, wanting to get to the point immediately. Her wrists started to hurt and she could feel the presence of the second man behind her. She was certain that his hands were wrapped around his gun again.

"Oh, I just wanted to chat a bit. A nice little chat between two old friends. But one is missing, isn't that the case? Where is your friend? Barton? Is he dead yet?"

"No."

"How unfortunate. Well. Of course I know that. How else would I be able to know that you were going to be here at this time? How else would I know that I had to stop at this corner to find you fixing that hideous motorcycle of yours?" he asked and laughed.

"After escaping that hellhole I gave myself a couple of months to relax. Surfing in New Zealand, you should try that. But after a couple of weeks I started to get bored. So I thought, hey, I think that it's a good time to see what my favorite nuisances are doing. It didn't take long for me to find out where you are. You two are famous now. You are two of America's greatest heroes. The Avengers," he said, enunciating the last word as if it were a delight to do so.

"Well, and then it was just as easy," he continued, gesturing widely with his well-tailored arms. "I spoke to a few of my old contacts and, well, I arranged this little meeting. You should keep your vehicles somewhere safer, you know. Anyone can manipulate them."

She glared at him. A couple of years ago she would have checked every transport she took, even if it were just rollerblades. She had become soft in America and stopped looking for attempts to take her life with a bomb or defect brakes fairly soon.

"So all you want is a chat?" she asked half-heartedly, trying to direct the topic off of her ignorance.

"Oh, yes. A chat. And then a little murder. You'll play a big role in it, yes; you'll be 50% of the murder."

She raised her eyebrow. "Why don't you do it here and now? I don't see anyone else."

Pizarro clicked with his tongue and slid his hands into the pockets of his suit. "Ah, not yet. The other half of the murder is still missing. You were the one that put the bullet through my shoulder but I will not forget the arrow in my foot."

Natasha remembered. Clint had been the one to make Pizarro fall when he was running from them. As the Peruvian was scrambling for his fallen weapon she shot him, making sure that he was immobilized.

"I assume that you'll also set him a trap?" she asked, inquiring whether she might have done the right choice and told Clint about her possible abduction, disrupting his normal routine, making it harder to catch him.

"I don't need to do that. I am nearly a hundred percent sure that you were using these valuable three seconds Claudio gave you to tell him your whereabouts and that I was standing here in all my beauty," Pizarro purred. The bulldog, his name apparently Claudio, smirked.

"The archer would love to be your hero, am I right? I don't have to move a finger. He will dance into the cobweb that you designed for me, Miss Romanoff. Thank you very much for that," he continued.

Natasha regretted having thrown her phone away. Now that she knew that she'd done a terrible mistake she wanted to correct it and warn Clint but it was too late now. Her phone was lying somewhere between tall grass a couple hundred feet behind her and there was no chance that she could escape Pizarro right here. Pizarro seemed to read the horror on her face because his slick grin grew even bigger. He opened his mouth to say something when Claudio raised a hand, his head turned in alert.

"Sir. I hear a vehicle approaching. We should leave," he grunted.

Pizarro's face fell. "Certainly. Thank you, Claudio. Vamos!" he shouted and hurried back to the car. Claudio had grabbed her by her arm and dragged her to the bench seat in the car. He pushed her in while the second man got into the driver's seat. Claudio climbed in behind her, his gun professionally trained at her the entire time. As soon as he closed the door behind him suit number two floored the gas as they sped away, distancing themselves from whatever car they heard approaching.

Natasha kept her eyes out the window, trying to remember the path they were taken. If she'd get a chance to escape she would know which way they went. After a while, however, she made the mistake to look into the outside mirror where she met the gaze of Pizarro. Quickly she looked into the interior of the car but Pizarro seemed to have understood.

"Knock her out!" he commanded.

Natasha opened her mouth to protest but before she could do so a blow on the left side of her head sent her into unconsciousness.