A for Effort (part 3)
Summary: Things go pear shaped continued
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Bits of rubble rained down around them, forcing Clint to role to avoid a shredded wooden beam. He glanced back towards the gun, keeping an eye on Alfred as he confronted the new arrival.
A walking stick was leveled in Alfred's direction.
"What did you do?" their, possible, ally accused in a heavy English accent.
"Whoa," Alfred put a hand on his chest, "hold the phone. This isn't MY fault!"
A gun fired across the room. The English man darted to the side in a move far too quick to be human. Alfred also took cover as more of their assailants gained their wits.
"I suppose Bosnia was also 'not your fault' along with that alien fiasco in New York!" was yelled. The area around them devolved into complete and utter chaos with scattered assailants firing blindly into the clouds of dust and smoke. Clint scooped up the gun and stumbled behind a pile of debris. Four bullets. Great.
"Hey! You can't pin New York on me!"
Alfred and their new ally continued shouting despite the danger.
"Oh Yes! Aliens just decide to invade right out of the blue for no reason whatsoever! Please. You must think I was born yesterday,"
The rest of the argument was drowned out by a series of small explosions. Clint grimaced, glancing around for something to break the chains on his cuffs. One of his legs was now sporting a large gash and he paused in his search to rip up a makeshift bandage to stem the flow of blood. Hopefully, Alfred and the English man would continue distracting everyone and give him some time to recover. He tied off the bandage and went back to breaking his cuff's chain links on a slab of concreate. Around him the warehouse literally deteriorated into a hurricane of shrapnel and explosions. What he wouldn't give for a clear head and a proper weapon.
"Don't move," the click of a gun.
Clint cursed his inattention, pausing in his efforts and glancing up.
It was suit guy, he had recovered a weapon which was now pointed at his head. He scanned his surroundings but neither Alfred or the English guy were in sight. All that shit and he was going to be shot anyway. He released a sigh, gathering his legs under him in preparation for a last-minute lunge. If he timed it right, he might still have a chance.
"I told them you would be trouble," suit man, who's suit now looked less like a suit and more like a pile of rags which had gone through a shredder, began, "Messing with SHEILD. I told them it was a bad idea. Super human bullshit."
Great. A monologue. He loved these. Clint, still crouching, slowly began to lift his weapon.
"Don't even try it," snapped the other.
Clint froze. Okay. SO that wouldn't work. He put down the gun, "Hey, um, OK, see I've dropped the weapon."
The suit man scowled, snorting, "Yeah, I see that."
Something exploded nearby and the other man winced. He seemed to be deciding whether to shoot Clint now or use him as a hostage. With all the chaos raining down no one had noticed their standoff.
"Why did you even want Jones. He can't have been the easiest man to kidnap," Clint tried. Hey. Any information was good information.
"Fuck if I know," the man snapped irritably, "We were only supposed to hold him for transport. Only idiots tangle with the big leagues. But hey, not like we had much of a choice,"
Now he had a chance Clint could make out dark circles under the other man's eyes, hinting at either stress or a lack of sleep. The way he was leaning to the side also suggested an injury. Maybe broken or cracked ribs.
"Who were you holding him for?" Clint asked slowly. He didn't want to set the obviously unstable man off.
The other sniggered, "You don't know? And here I thought you were high up the ladder. Guess they don't tell you shit either."
The man cocked his weapon and Clint tensed. Not good.
"You idiot's think you have everything figured out. I have news for you, pal. SHIELD an't the bastion of perfection everyone thinks it is. Too bad you're not going to live long enough to see it for what it is,"
The gun fired. Several things happened in quick succession.
Clint lunged. The man stumbled back, expression shifting from angry to shocked.
The back of Clint's shirt was jerked, tightening around his neck, briefly cutting off his air. He was pulled into the air and yanked out of the bullet's path. A sudden blurr of movement. The sensation of flying.
And he slammed into Alfred with enough force to send them both hurtling backwards.
"Ugh," Alfred grunted. They both went crashing into the side of a crate. Splinters and bits of wood went flying.
Ouch.
"Hawk guy?" Alfred questioned. Clint groaned in response. Vision blurry. What the hell.
"A little warning would be nice," Alfred complained over his head at someone out of sight. Whoever had so kindly thrown him.
"A little warning….A LITTLE WARNING," Familiar accented yelling. Clint twist, squinting over his shoulder. The English man was standing across the warehouse next to suit guy who he causally whacked in the neck, causing the other to crumple to the ground. He turned in their direction, pointing a finger at Alfred, "do you know what a complete nightmare it was to track this place down?"
"Getting slow in your old age?" Alfred challenged. English man scowled in response before effortlessly sidestepping several gun shots. A second later and he had darted off. A blur of olive green across the now thoroughly destroyed warehouse. Definitely a meta human. And, judging by his familiarity with Alfred, his overwhelming Englishness and SHIELD classified information, he could hazard a guess to who it was. He was surprised it had taken him this long to put it all together.
"That's Arthur Kirkland," he commented, making it more of a statement than a question. By that point his head had cleared enough to realize that he was lying across Alfred. At this point he had run out of shits to give.
"Yeah, that's Iggy," Alfred pulled them both upright, untangling them from various boxes.
"YES, LET US JUST THROW A FEW NATIONAL SECRETS ON THE TABLE AS WELL. WHY NOT?" shouted the now confirmed Kirkland.
"HE WOULD'VE FIGURED IT OUT ANYWAY!" Alfred jumped to his feet and yelled back. Just as quickly he ducked back down when his shouting attracted unwanted attention.
Clint winced, knocked to the side by the sudden movement.
"He's in a bad mood. Usually, he's nicer," Alfred reassured.
For some reason, Clint doubted it.
"Hey, are you okay?" Alfred appeared to have just noticed his less that stela condition. Despite spending the last half hour getting shot at Alfred didn't seem anymore ruffled then when he had first seen him. Aside from a few tears in his clothing and a lot of dust Alfred was fine. Meanwhile, Clint felt like he had gone through a blender. Probably looked it too. Meta-human bullshit indeed.
Clint tilted his, still cuffed, hands in a so-and-so motion, "I can still shoot,"
And move…maybe. There were only so many times a man could get thrown across a room.
Alfred scrunched up his nose, appearing doubtful.
"Oh," Alfred noticed his cuffs, "here, let me get that," Alfred lent forward, gripped the cuff's chain and ripped it apart with his bare hands.
Clint grimaced, examining the links now hanging like bangles from his wrists, "Thought you didn't have super strength," he questioned. Would have been useful earlier.
Alfred shrugged, "Well, it's not my full strength. But Iggy's here, so that helps."
"Right," he agreed. Don't question it. Seamed to be 'quote of the day.' He was the subject of another concerned glance.
"Wait here," Alfred nodded, dashing away, leaving Clint to examine his new position. It was closer to the side of the warehouse. Which was good because, despite calming down somewhat, the middle floor space was still a shit show. He was also closer to the hole Kirkland had busted through. Hopefully, no more enemy backup would arrive. The bus he had initially been aiming for was also further away. But, with Alfred and Kirkland tearing through opponents like crate-paper, the chances of him making it there had dramatically improved.
Alfred returned to deposit a new weapon in his lap along with several refills.
"Thanks," he nodded, pulling himself around so he was in a better position. Alfred hovered, buzzing with concerned excitement. The normality and humaneness which had caused Clint to initially dismiss the man was all but gone now. The air around him was alive with impatient static.
Alfred hesitated, "Are you sure you're okay."
Wow. He must really look like crap.
"I'm fine," and when this failed to inspire movement, "Go help that English bastard. Kick ass,"
Alfred beamed, giving him an almost carful pat, "You got it,"
Alfred charged off, barreling through the remaining assailants, drawing the attention of whoever was still fighting. If Alfred was anything, it was flashy. Together, Alfred and Kirkland zipped between their disoriented captures. His shoulder prickled around the area Alfred had touched. A new warmth crept through his limbs, chasing away his fatigue. It reminded him of drinking hot mead on a cold winter night. Clint checked himself over again, adjusting the bandage on his leg. Just because he felt a shit ton better didn't mean he was.
The dust had now cleared enough to give him a proper view of the warehouse. Carefully, he pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on a destroyed crate, which was spilling large metal slabs. With Alfred and Kirkland still yelling insults at each other, Clint was free to circumnavigated mounds of rubble.
Some of the assailants had regrouped near the hole in the wall. Clint kept an eye on them as he moved towards the bus. He recognized them as the men who had come with cold voice guy, judging by their better equipment. Soon the group was carefully approaching Kirkland who had paused briefly in his movement. Right. These guys were better trained then the others. In response, Clint stopped, leaning on a mound and taking aim. Maybe Kirkland had seen them. Maybe he hadn't. Better to be prepared. Despite the unfamiliar weapon he managed to dispatch two of the group, causing the rest to scatter and duck behind upturned boxes. Alfred moved into view, quickly traversing the blocky terrain and dispatching the remaining two with two easy punches. Super strength. Must be nice.
Clint paused and stooping low, taking a few seconds to regain his strength. Despite Alfred's odd strength boost Clint was definitely feeling the strain of the last few hours. He ducked off, now moving at a more sedate pace, rerouting to the avoid the occasional disoriented straggler. Finally, and with no lack of effort, he made it to his destination.
The bus was bulky and the top level had been stripped away to allow tourists a better view of whatever they were touring. The doors were thankfully unlocked and Clint, glancing about him, slipped inside, clambering up the steps. He wasted no time in pulling apart the wiring in the dashboard, jamming himself down to avoid being a target.
The sound of a revving engine. Finally. He pulled himself up into the driver's seat, checking over the gearshifts. Seamed to be your standard heavy vehicle's manual configuration. He rentched at the gears, yanking at the large steering wheel. He slammed his foot on the accelerator and the bus lurched forward. Tiers screeched against the warehouse's smooth concrete floor. Boxes and miscellaneous items crunched as he maneuvered through the midfield of containers and crates.
To his left he spotted the forms of Alfred and Kirkland both crouched behind a heap of torn up ration boxes. Clint hit the brakes, putting the bus in reverse, twisting in his seat and backing towards his targets. The large bus steamrolled through the piles of junk, scattering their remaining attackers.
He flipped a switch and the doors clattered open.
Alfred and Kirkland, surrounded by unconscious bodies-not dead bodies-, appeared to be bickering. His arrival did little to disturbed them. On the other side of the bus several downed men regained their wits, having leapt widely to avoid being run over.
"…had to leave Europe early," Kirkland complained, "You owe me."
"Hey. Who just unearthed a terrorist cell for you? You're welcome,"
They seemed almost unconcerned about the carnage around them. Clint cleared his throat. He was ignored.
"Do not be ridiculous, getting captured is hardly a viable strategy for solving anything."
"Worked didn't it,"
Kirkland rolled his eyes, "Your 'plan' only worked because I put in the actual effort."
Gun fire shattered the window to his right.
"Maybe if you had better security…"
"Okay, that's enough," he interrupted impatiently, "let's get out of here before more back up arrives," time to move the circus some place more secure.
Alfred glanced at him, opening his mouth.
"Yes, right," England causally brushed Alfred away, "Let us get to safety."
Alfred scowled as they both clambered onto the bus. Correction, Alfred and Kirkland easily leapt up the steps. Clint rolled his eyes and slammed a foot on the accelerator and took a small amount of pleasure in seeing Alfred and Kirkland stumble slightly at the sudden movement.
The bus doors swung shut. Gun fire followed their retreat. He spun the bus to face the large roller doors.
"Brace yourselves," Clint warned
The doors to the warehouse raced to meet them. Everyone latched onto the fixtures around them. Clint braced for impact. The entire bus shuddered, jolting. The sound of screeching metal. Sparks of light sprayed down around them. Everything shook, trembling. The warehouse doors caved, flung away from the high seed object. Bright sunlight momentarily blinded him as the bus exploded out of the building. It rocketed down the narrow driveway and then into a set of street lanes. Bulky stone buildings boxed them in and they sped towards an intersection. Luckily, there seemed to be little in the way of traffic, the area consisting of disused warehouses. He scanned the location, taking in the many broken and bordered-up windows while they sped past.
"Turn left," Kirkland barked and he wrenched the wheel to the side on instinct. The bus rocked as its right set of wheels came loose from the pavement. He was subsequently slammed into the seat side window. He was going to have so many bruises when this was over.
"If we continue forward we will hit a main road!" Kirkland was again shouting, standing over him as he struggled to keep the bus from tipping.
"Turn right,"
"RIGHT!" Kirkland repeated when the they missed the turn and ran up onto the pavement.
"This is a lot harder than it looks," He snapped with the patience of someone who had dealt with unexpected bullshit all day.
The bus jerked as it mowed down a lamp post.
"For god's sake," Kirkland complained. Alfred snorted in amusement from where he was clinging to a seat further down the aisle. At least someone was finding the situation humorous.
Another lamp post and a one poor trash can later and…
"Out, out. Let me drive," Kirkland, tired of playing navigator, ordered. He glanced briefly at the English Personification.
"I know these streets like the back of my hand," the other added impatiently. Well, if anyone had a chance of navigating these tiny roads in the hulking bus it would be the personification of the country.
There was some odd contorting as they switched places. The bus swerved unpredictability and he was saved from getting slammed into the wall by Alfred who had reached out to steady him. Once situated in the driver's seat Kirkalnd wasted no time in coxing the already speeding vehicle into accelerating faster.
Clint squinted back at the carnage leaving an easy to follow trail in their wake. So far there were no pursuers. That would probably change soon as tour buses weren't the fastest or most maneuverable vehicles. Four black SUVs swung around the corner.
He hated being right.
"We have pursuers," he announced, watching the cars jostle for position on the narrowing street. These people were persistent.
Everything tipped again when Kirkland turned into a tight side lane. Clint, unable to brace in time, was flung across the aisle and into Alfred. They both went tumbling, hitting the opposite wall. A horrid screeching as the metal caught on the narrow stone walls. At least now the SUVs could only follow one at a time. He narrowed his eyes, noticing that there were only two cars in pursuit instead of four. The other two must be circling the block. He shared a concerned glance with Alfred.
"Alfred," Kirkland tossed something metallic over his shoulder. The other snatched the object form the air.
"Hey! My gun," Alfred's face lit up before frowning.
"You had this the whole time," he accused.
Kirkland glowered out the corner of his eye, turning his attention back to the road. Gun fired sounded from behind and the back window shattered. Clint, ignoring the drama, attempted to gauge the distance between them and their pursuers. If he could get to the bus's top deck he may have a chance at taking them out. Automatics weren't the most precise of guns but he hadn't become a top marksman through mastery of the bow and arrow alone.
"Iggy! You take care of driving" Alfred ordered, breaking off whatever staring contest he and Kirkland were having. Kirkland spluttered in response.
"Come on Hawk guy," Alfred grabbed his arm, pulling Clint upright, "Let's take care of these wanabees,"
Alfred practically picked him up as he yanked them both up the stairs onto the open deck. The sudden exposure to the rushing wind almost had him tumbling off the back. He ducked down. Hopefully, no one had noticed their arrival.
"You think you can take out those wheels," Alfred was crouched beside him. Clint pulled around his weapon from where he had had it slung across his back, releasing the safety. What sort of question was that?
"In my sleep," he answered, shuffling across the deck, getting into position. The narrowness of the ally almost made the task too easy.
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AN: Originally, I planned to have this chapter out about two weeks after the last one. Obviously, that didn't happen. Due to study and work, recreational writing has taken a backseat on my priority list. There is a final chapter in the works but I can't guarantee a post date. Thank you to the people who reviewed it does help to know that people read and enjoy my writing.
