THEN

He ran, tracking between tents, crouching behind stalls, trying to lose himself in the shadows. Ahead, the Big Top loomed, its flags flapping in the stiff wind, and he darted into the dark confines, hoping to find a place to hide. The stands were empty, trash still underneath from the performance earlier; he crawled beneath, hands and knees so sticky with dropped pieces of cotton candy and the fake butter from the popcorn. He froze at every sound, trying so hard not to crinkle any paper or rattle the rusty metal struts that held the boards above him.

"I know you're in here, boy," Duquesne's voice echoed in the empty space. "You come on out and I'll go easy on you."

Clint wasn't that gullible. No mistaking, the money in Duquesne's hands was from Carson's safe. He'd stolen it and Clint had walked in on him. The last few years had taught him Duquesne's preferred method of dealing with problems, and Clint was firmly in the problem column now. He knew the Swordsman was going to kill him for what he'd seen.

Moving as quietly as he could, he kept going, aiming for the performer's entrance. If he could get there, he might make it across the empty expanse and out into the night. His shoulder brushed a strut and he paused, waiting for a reaction; only silence greeted his ears. Where was Duquesne? When he spoke, Clint had placed him by the main entrance, but now he could hear nothing at all, no breathing, no footfalls, just eerie quiet. Clint's own breath was harsh in his ears, too loud for comfort. Only one section remained before the opening. His heart thumped so hard he was sure it was going to blow out of his chest as he sized up the distance. Scooting closer, his eyes adjusted to darkness, he could see the dim light through the crack where the flap wasn't tied tight enough. He could make it. The training he'd gotten from Duquesne was both a blessing and a curse. Taking to the bow like he'd been born with one in his hand, he was better now than both of them, more agile, more accurate. The Swordsman had become angry lately, taking out his frustration on Clint. Every time the crowd cheered for Clint and seemingly ignored Duquesne, the tension grew between them.

Why hadn't he just walked away? Made some glib comment, taken a payoff and let Duquesne get on with whatever he was doing? But no, he'd had to threaten to call the cops, the worst thing he could say. Even now, after all the people who had lied and cheated and hurt him, had smacked him around and held him down and cut him until he bled, Clint still wanted to believe there was good in the world, that right and wrong mattered. Damn streak of heroism was going to get him killed, maybe today.

Still no sign of Duquesne and only a foot or so to go. He could sprint from here, make the exit fast and be gone before anyone knew it. Gathering his strength, he rocked a bit, tensing his muscles, then sprang forward, scuttling along in a crouch until he cleared the end of the stands.

"Got you."

A hand reached for Clint's sleeve, grabbing the cotton of his sweatshirt, and Duquesne towered over him, face hard set and half-shadowed. His fist caught Clint in the shoulder, and Clint rolled just like he'd been taught, going with the force of the motion. Twisting his slim torso, he wrenched his arm out of the sleeve, ducked his head, and left the bigger man holding a limp shirt. The exit blocked, Clint ran into the rings, curses following right behind as Duquesne kept pace, just a step behind. Catching the rope ladder, Clint clambered up, his small size an advantage in the race to the platform. Duquesne was larger, his old knee injury slowing him down as he climbed the rungs. Twice, Clint slipped, his hands slick with sweat, and Duquesne grabbed his pants leg. Shaking him off, Clint made it to the top, kicked off his shoes, and started across the tightrope. This, he knew, Duquesne couldn't do. If he got to the middle platform, there was an access ladder to the top of the tent; Clint was often the one who crawled up there and helped anchor the whole structure during set up. He could wait it out there until morning or call out for help.

"I'd have enjoyed feeling you die beneath my own hands, boy." Duquesne was out of breath, wheezing slightly. "Cocky little bastard, so sure of yourself. You would have gotten old one day too, Clint, and not been the star anymore. Someone better would come along and nobody would give a damn about a washed-up has been marksman. You might have understood if you lived that long … but you're not going to."

Clint was past halfway and he rushed it, trying to not listen to Duquesne's words and focus instead on his balance. A vibration was his first warning; he dropped, reaching his hands for the rope, hoping to wrap himself around it before the Swordsman could shake it hard enough.

"Hell of a way to die, Clint." Duquesne laughed. "But you always were going to fall one day."

His hands missed, fingers barely brushing the rope before he was falling, gravity pulling him down towards the ground, no net beneath him. Face up, he could see Duquesne leaning over the edge of the platform, could watch the rope recede. His life didn't flash before his eyes. He didn't have time to think anything at all before the he slammed into the ground and pain engulfed him.

NOW

The Ochoa compound hadn't changed all that much since the last time Clint had been there. Except this time, he had come in through the main gate, walking up the road towards the house with the rows of glass windows that reflected the glare of the afternoon sun and would provide spectacular views of the sun when it set in a few hours. There used to be a small grove of trees around a little pond just down the hillside, but it was empty ground now, no sign of the perch he'd used to steady his rifle and taken the shot that ended Rogero's string of murders. New security cameras were evident everywhere, tiny boxes that were still outdated by Tony's criteria even though there were the latest available on the market. Men with guns roamed the yard, razor wire along the top of the wall, sensor plates on the front porch … all pointed to paranoia on Julio's part. That tracked with the information Clint had crammed into his brain after he woke this morning. The Bogota Police had the Ochoa youngest son on the top of their suspect list, but his powerful family kept them from investigating further. People who went against the cartel disappeared into unmarked graves, and far too many of the detectives would rather take the pay off and keep quiet than risk their lives to solve the case.

Yet witness after witness told of a young man who'd been scarred psychologically from birth; his mother, an exotic dancer who snorted much of her generous allowance up her nose, taking payment in cocaine instead of cash, had died when he was only two-years-old. She'd dropped him off at Ochoa's house without a word, leaving him to be raised by Rogero's mother, a woman who believed in liberal use of the rod to silence the children. Bruce was the one who noticed the discrepancy in the autopsies. While the women were all beaten and raped before death, Rogero's victims of fifteen years ago were all carved with symbols in their skin quite a while after their deaths. The current victims showed signs that the symbols were done both before and shortly after death. It chilled Clint to think that even at fifteen, Julio had already been working on the bodies; the working theory was that Rogero was a brutal thug, but Julio thought of himself as much more.

As if to confirm that impression, Clint walked into the first room of the house. Ultra-modern with stainless steel and black leather furniture mixed with old artifacts that looked to be museum quality. He recognized a stone with intricate scrollwork and a carving that looked like an ancient Inca god; the design was achingly familiar from the crime scene photos. Expensive paintings, tile floors – the interior could be featured in one of those design magazines, the kinds that always hounded Tony for access to Stark Tower. But it was too clinical, everything in place, nothing personal anywhere. The room set off all the warning bells that Clint had learned not to ignore in his years as a spy. All that as missing was a pet cheetah or some exotic animal … oh, wait, there was a large aquarium with bald python hanging off of a barren limb, long yellow stripe down its back. Yes, all the boxes for eccentric psycho were checked now. And that made Clint even surer that Julio was just the front man in this operation; experience had taught him that psychosis and well-organized plans did not go hand-in-hand.

"Nice digs," Clint said to the guards. "Little too sterile for my taste, but better than that 80s crap that used to be here." He had no idea if they spoke any English, but he sure wasn't going to let them know he understood Spanish. "Snakes? Why'd it have to be snakes?"

"Este camino," the lead guard said, a short man with a barrel for a chest and dark curly hair. He added a push with the muzzle of his automatic rifle to head Clint down a hallway. They passed a dining room with a two story high ceiling, a kitchen that was a chef's wet dream, and then he was shoved out of a sliding glass door onto an interior courtyard. Lush green plants shaded the stone walkways; a clay fountain dominated the middle of the space with lounge chairs arrayed around the small lap pool beside it. The walls of the house blocked all but a square space of blue sky, eliminating any line of sight into the area.

Julio Ochoa looked young for his age. At 30, he could easily pass for a college student, his slim shoulders showing the line of his collarbone, his skin tan and brown, his chest smooth and hairless. A pair of Chrome Hearts sunglasses – complete with dagger design – rested on his nose. He wore white swim trunks and nothing else, just a white towel behind his head. The latest Starkphone was glued to his ear as he carried on a conversation about an auction, authorizing his agent to raise the bid. Looking over the top of his glasses with bored dark brown eyes, he waved Clint to take a seat in the other free lounge as he continued.

"Si. But no more than $500,000. I want it. Make it happen." Julio ended the call and casually dropped the phone on the table before picking up his glass. "I love street art, but hate the latecomers driving up the price. Banksy's getting far too well known; I'll have to find another to collect. Martini?"

"Not really a martini drinker, thanks. More of a whiskey, man." If Julio thought he could rattle Clint with this gracious host act, he was wrong. Bruce had taught Clint a lot about maintaining his calm and Tony was the king of inappropriate cocktail talk with villains. So he settled back, kicked his boots up onto the white cushion, leaving dirt in his wake as he got comfortable. "I wouldn't say no to some scotch."

"Alberto, get our guest some Glenlivet, please," Julio directed the older man in white who was waiting by another entryway. "And have Constance make the preparations. I'm sure Agent Barton will want to meet his daughter soon."

Straight to it then. "Actually, I'll need some proof of that. Not a big fan of Maury Povich surprises. An independently verified DNA test would suffice. Blood drawn at a neutral facility … you understand." Clint took the tumbler from Alberto, sniffed and swirled, then sipped.

"Of course. In this day and age, we must be sure. She is your child; Angel never slept with another man but you." He wasn't the best poker player. Clint could tell he thought he was twisting the knife with his little jabs. After Loki, Julio was the bush leagues. "I admit to being surprised you chose this method of entry. I expected a quiet break-in, to wake to find you with a rifle over my bed. Or are you leaving that to your colleagues, maybe the infamous Black Widow or that monster you are fucking?"

"Trust me, if the Hulk was here, you'd definitely know it. He likes kids and hates those who hurt them. I thought this was a quieter approach, don't you think? You tell me what it is you want and we negotiate like grown-ups instead of pitching tantrums." Clint shrugged; he'd expected Julio to know he wasn't alone. But knowing Natasha was here and knowing what she was doing were two very different things. By now, she was in the compound somewhere, a complex program of shifting cameras creating dead spots for her thanks to Steve and JARVIS. Plus, Phil hadn't even registered on Julio's radar.

"Indeed!" Julio clapped his hands and sat up. "Much nicer. We can sit and have a long chat. I admit to being curious about you, how you went from being a gun-for-hire to the world's greatest archer. A fascinating journey I'm sure."

"I could ask the same of you, but then you always were a twisted little shit, weren't you? Carved up big brother's leftovers and graduated to making your own bodies to play with." He smiled his best shark-toothed grin, shifting strategies to keep Julio off-balance. "Now you think you're ready to play with the big boys, but you're out of your league."

Lines appeared on Julio's brow as he scowled; he clutched the thin stem of his glass and drained the rest of his drink. "I am an artist; I make people better, a piece of beauty in our messed up world." He visibly restrained himself, drawing in a deep breath.

"Right. Justification 101. Bigger question is why Daddy has left you in charge at all. Everyone knows you're insane. Maybe the Padre is getting too old? Sick? No one's seen him in a while." Poke every angle, see what gets a reaction. Clint's style wasn't elegant, but it got the job done. Of course he usually ended up battered and bruised along the way.

"And how is Ronin? I hear he's still active, took out that Saudi royal with a penchant for pederasty just a few years ago. Wouldn't your beloved Avengers like to know who they have working with them?" Julio pushed back.

Clint laughed. "Tony Stark knows everything, haven't you heard? If I remember correctly, I got a steak dinner after that one. Seems that child molesters are universally condemned to a special hell. What can I say? I've got a gift for ridding the world of bad seeds."

"Dreamers are often misunderstood in their generation," Julio said, getting defensive. "Mundane minds like yours can't understand the benefits of being special, obviously, or you wouldn't try so hard to stop the transformation, would let nature take its course."

Ah, yes. Pay dirt. Julio did know about Fisk's program; the only surprise was how quickly Julio had spilled the information. "And that answers the crazy question. You're ready for your close-up on CSI. You do realize that the wacko killer always ends up dead at the end of the story, right?"

He was getting angry, his eyes hardening, exactly what Clint was after. "I do what is necessary, like you used to. Rogero deserved to die; he was affecting the business, too busy with his girls and snorting most of the profit. His genes needed to be out of the gene pool. You knew that. But now you are this … whatever you've become … and you've forgotten that death is a necessary part of life."

"I'm here, Julio. If you wanted me dead, I would be, so your plan requires my active participation. Get on with it. I've got better things to do than listen to you lecture me on the virtues of mass murderers." Keep him guessing, change tones and subjects, and he'd tell Clint everything. Natasha had taught him that.

"Parties to go to with your friend Stark? He makes such wonderful toys," Julio spun his phone in his hands, fidgeting it between his fingers. "Or your American Captain? I hear they are dating now like you. Stark I would believe, but the good soldier? Father is right; men aren't men today."

"Never would have pegged you for a Page Six gossip fan, but, hey, whatever floats your boat." Clint took another drink and didn't rise to the bait, letting the silence lengthen as Julio grew more agitated. Obviously this wasn't the way he'd imagined the interview going. "Seems to me you want to be the king of your little castle here."

"You want to know what I want?" Julio couldn't stop himself; Clint was counting on the brag factor. All villains, small or large, seemed to want to tell someone their plans. "I want to be the man my father thinks Rogero was. Simple, really. I bring him the head of the man who killed his beloved son on a platter then he will finally give me the reigns of the business."

There was a kernel of truth there but most of the answer was practiced bullshit. "Easy enough to do. Just hire someone to take me out. No, you want me here, to torture for your own twisted pleasure."

Alberto bent and whispered into Julio's ear. The servant's eyes lit on Clint for a split second then slid away. Not a good sign; the man was scared. Jumping up, Julio reached for the shirt Alberto held out, shrugging into the white button-up short sleeve. "Good. She's awake. That will make this interview more exciting. Come. See why you're here."

Clint felt the pulse of concern from Bruce, not all that distant. He and Phil were in the nearest town, settled in to an old garage that was out of business. Between satellite imagery and JARVIS' access to the Ochoa compound's security system, they were probably watching Clint as he followed Julio down the hallway. The cameras weren't even hidden; every angle seemed to be watched by a lens. He made no bones about checking out the locations, peering in open doorways and matching the layout with the map in his head. Along the way, he counted at least seven more armed men with the look of professional mercenaries, the kind who had no moral compass but cash on the table, a good sign. When push came to shove, money might get them to walk away. They weren't zealots to the cause. But where were all the servants?

They turned down a staircase, wide and shallow marble that curved into a game room – billiard table, big screen TV, a fully stocked bar – and then through a small door that led to a more utilitarian set of stairs and a deeper level. Here the walls were unadorned concrete block, the temperature noticeably cooler, the security even more evident. Julio paused in a small side room where a willowy blonde sat behind a desk, fingers clicking over the keys of a blue laptop. Cold blue eyes looked up at them, peering over her black rimmed glasses. In her mid-50s, this woman's face was dead, no emotion whatsoever.

"Senor Ochoa." She had a heavy Norwegian accent. "She is prepared for you. Vitals are good; the medicine is working as expected. Slow but steady progress."

"Good work, Constance. Let our guest see."

A curtain drew aside from a thick window, revealing what looked like a hospital room on the other side of the heavily reinforced door. In the dim light of the room, the monitors cast a glow over the form on the bed; dark hair hung in unwashed hanks, thin arms covered in goose bumps were strapped down to the metal rungs of the uncomfortable gurney, and golden brown skin was faded, pale from exhaustion. Clint stepped forward without meaning to, his heart stopping as he saw the curving mound of her stomach, so far gone in the pregnancy that her belly button was protruding upward. His hands curled into fists and a red-hot range rolled through him; within seconds, an answering growl of anger fed back along the connection, the Big Guy reacting to Clint's dark impulse to sink his hands into Julio's neck. Only with years of practice did Clint manage to keep his face impassive as he willed himself calm and pushed back to tell the Hulk not to come smashing in just yet.

"You know I'm going to kill you." Clint made the statement even and measured, like he was discussing the weather. "Daughter or not, you're not going to live."

"We'll see." Julio was positively gleeful; he'd lost all pretenses at being anything more than aroused by the pain on the girl's tear streaked face. "Or I'll be the father of a baby with quite a pedigree long after you're in a shallow grave in the jungle."

"You God damn son-of-a-bitch." Clint's vision whited out and he was moving before Julio stopped speaking, driving an elbow back into one of the guard's nose, shattering it and leaving a splatter of blood. Spinning, Clint grabbed the muzzle of the second one's gun, taking it from him and using the butt to break his cheekbone. Swinging it like a club, he went after the third, knocking him down. That left just the fourth and Clint needed only wave the AK 47 in the man's direction before he raised his hands in surrender. Clint couldn't fathom that depth of depravity; he never could, despite multiple examples over the years. To intentionally hurt a child, someone dependent on you, helpless and unable to defend themselves – a stone cold surety settled in his gut, the kind of lack of emotion Natasha called the killing zone. Not on his watch. Not to any child.

"That was a lovely demonstration." Julio didn't seem bothered by the barrel of the gun in his face or Clint's determined glare. Instead he lifted his hand and showed Clint the square device he held there. "But you're going to put down the gun and go quietly or I'll use this."

It was a trigger remote, designed to activate the nannites that had been introduced into Clint's body and programmed to alter his basic DNA structure by enhancing his natural abilities. Richard Fisk had fostered the technology in order to create more Hulks for H.Y.D.R.A., but he'd also planned to make more mutations among the human population for his own army with super-human powers. He'd had a successful test, turning General Thaddeus Ross and his daughter Betty into Hulks before the Avengers had been able to stop him. Worst of all, Fisk had exposed Bruce and Clint then triggered their change. The Big Guy and Bruce had developed a more symbiotic relationship, sharing memories and becoming able to control their shifts back and forth. Clint could see in the dark and his reaction time was much faster. All in all, the outcome wasn't the worst it could have been.

"Fisk is in prison, or at least what's left of him," Clint spat. He'd had enough of this jackass. "Whatever they promised you? Great power, infinite riches? Yeah, no. Mab's going to send someone who'll take over your body, leaving nothing behind. Tell me who is running this freak show, and I'll kill you quickly. My final and only offer."

"Oh, I'm just the means to an end." Julio nodded to the girl on the table. She was awake now, her blue-grey eyes – Clint's eyes – staring out at them, wide and scared. Biting her lip so hard blood leaked from the edge, she refused to cry out, staying silent as she listened. "You know that Angel was special? She had the sight, strong enough to avoid my ability to hunt her and her brat down until she was dead. And you, you're just as much a freak as those sideshows in your precious circus. Take that mix of DNA in the girl and add mine? Alchemy. Magic. A vessel worthy of the Queen of Darkness."

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. This cluster was getting worse by the minute. Clint was ready to let the Big Guy go on his rampage. He knew real evil existed in the world, but the very thought of Julio with Margarita … she was fifteen fucking years old. Fifteen-year-old girls should be giggling about their first crush or sleeping over at a friend's house, not laying on a bed in the house of her rapist, waiting for a father she'd never known to come rescue her. "I hate to break the news to you, but that little box isn't going to stop me."

"Of course it is." Julio put his thumb on the green button and pushed. "You'll do whatever I want."

Clint braced himself, but the expected pain didn't come. Julio had turned, pointing the device at Margarita with a look of glee on his face. The scream battered Clint's heart as her body shook, back arching up even under the weight of the child inside of her. Thrashing, she jerked so hard the bed rolled and the straps strained. The gown stretched across her stomach and Clint could see the ripples across the taut skin as the monitors went crazy.

"Stop it!" Clint jammed the gun into Julio's side.

Black tentacles wrapped around his arm and yanked the gun away from him. The nurse, Constance, was smiling, eyes alight with an unholy excitement, six of the long appendages looping around Clint and dragging him back.

"Come now. I know the destruction you are capable of. I have a few surprises of my own." Julio didn't, or couldn't, tear his eyes away from the writhing form, holding down the button as Clint struggled to get free.

"Senor Ochoa," Constant said, no hint in her voice that she was expending any energy at all. "We are on a tight schedule. She is not ready yet."

With a small sigh, Julio moved his finger and tucked the device back into the pocket of his trunks. "Yes, yes. The Pitocin will do its job, I know. But a man has to have a little distraction now and then." He turned to the nurse. "Check her dilation and contractions. Keep her slow and easy." With a chilling smile, he turned back to Clint. "Help me get our guest to his room and the fun can truly begin."

"So much for a quick death," Clint told him as the tentacles pulled him along towards another door. And he meant every word. Julio Ochoa was going to die. The only question was by Clint's hand or did he let the Black Widow have him to play with?