Granada, Spain

Spain is perfect. Every house is a different brilliant color, and the streets are rich brown clay. The city is vibrant and bustling and full of life. Women swish by in long, many-hued skirts, and the white noise of conversations and traffic and commerce floats above the buildings and the streets. The sky is pure, unadulterated blue.

Coulson is driving like a bat out of Hell.

A bullet zings in through the broken glass of the rear window, whizzing past dangerously close to his ear. In the back seat, Clint fires shots from the twin pistols clutched in his fists and curses in a continuous stream of creative swear words. The van following them through the winding roads is gaining speed.

Coulson swerves to avoid a gaggle of screeching pedestrians. Clint grunts as he falls back against the car door. He's up again in a flash, but when he pulls the trigger of his guns they click emptily and he shouts out a four-letter word that is illegal in seventeen separate countries. "Coulson! Get these guys off our tail!"

"What do you think I'm trying to do?" Phil snaps, maneuvering around a fruit stand. He takes the corner at 67 miles per hour. Their followers copy them, rising up on two wheels and then slamming back onto the road loudly. The few people who haven't scampered off the road already dive into the safety of the nearby buildings.

When Clint clambers into the front seat, he's got his bow in one hand and his arrows in the other. "I'm going through the sunroof."

"Is that a good idea?"

"Fuck no, but I'm gonna do it anyway." The archer yanks the high window open. "Don't make any crazy turns."

"No promises, Barton." Phil jolts in his seat as the other car rams into them. He presses his foot down harder on the accelerator. "Hurry up."

"Yes, sir." Clint hauls himself up so that just his legs are dangling through the sunroof, feet perched on the passenger seat. Phil listens absently as the stream of cursing picks up again, accompanied by loud "twang"-ing noises and the sudden squeal of the other car's brakes. The smell of burning rubber fills his nose; he hears a scream, and then a crash. Chancing a look over his shoulder, Phil sees the other car lying crumpled on the side of the road, half an arrow sticking out from the fractured glass of the windshield.

Ten seconds later, the other car explodes in a ball of flame.

Clint drops back down, wiping the sweat and dirt from his brow with the back of one broad hand. "Well. That went better than I expected it to."

"As that wasn't a Pinto, I'm going to guess R&D finally perfected that explosive arrow design. I'll be expecting you to file a report on them along with your usual debriefing. Understood?"

Clint rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. "Count on you to turn an awesome car chase into paperwork, boss."