CHAPTER 7
Clint raises his hands, his throat dry. "Okay, okay. Let's not do anything rash, now."
"Get up." Blacker stuffs the pen into his pocket.
"I'll give you the codes, just don't... Just take it easy. I'll give them to you." He knows this is exactly what Blacker wants, for him to start making bargains, to start negotiating. It's a game he doesn't stand a chance in hell to win.
"I know you will. Now come here."
Clint pushes up slowly, stiffly. The floor feels like it moves a little under his feet, and he has to take a small step to counter the sensation. Shit. This is new. Whatever was in that damn water he drank must have been absorbed crazy quick, because there hadn't been all that many minutes between drinking it and throwing up. Coulson better crash this party real soon, because his name and codes are one thing, but more questions will be lined up, and at some point he won't have any other option than to stop yielding to Blacker. Some information just can't get into the wrong hands. No matter what leverage is used against him.
He forces his mind to focus on the situation at hand. He dares a glance around the room, checks the guards and their positions. His hands are still untied and this might be the best opportunity he'll get. He's too far away from the guards to be able to take them out just now, but if he's just a little lucky he'll-
"How is our lovely friend doing downstairs," Blacker asks, mildly. Even though he doesn't take his eyes of Clint, the question clearly isn't aimed at him.
Huey relays the question into a comm device clipped onto his shoulder, law enforcement-style. He's got an earpiece and Clint sees now that all three of his escorts have the same. Huey listens to something and a moment later he turns back to Blacker. "Calm and quiet down there," he reports.
Blacker smiles. "Let's keep it that way, shall we?" he says to Clint.
Clint wants to take a low grit sander to that smile.
Blacker motions him over to the window. It's an old-style window to go with the old-style interior. Layer upon layer of paint has been applied to the frame over the years, cracking and peeling in places. Sash bars divide the window into six dusty panes. The landscape beyond is rugged and rough under heavy, gray clouds. Clint's hunch from last night about the emptiness around the farm proves to be right. There's nothing around but rough shrubbery and jagged rock formations that fades off in the drizzling rain. Yep. East of the city.
The rain has turned the ground in front of the house into even more of a mud pit than it had been when they'd arrived, and everything is cast in shades of washed out browns, greens, and grays. Clint sees two guards along the stretch of perimeter that's visible to him, and he finds at least one weak spot. There are four decaying sheds of varying sizes, randomly plunked down around the large yard at some point in time, and he thinks one of them might be a garage or a workshop. He lets part of his mind play with the idea of combining a power drill with Blacker's knees as he continues his mapping of the exterior. Unpaved country road leading up to the house. Three vehicles parked along the left edge of the yard, two sedans, and one rusty, beat up distribution truck. Probably the one they were brought in on.
Blacker shifts behind him. Clint can hear the rustle of his clothes. "The view has a certain kind of charm, don't you think?"
"Sure," Clint says. "A dreary, suicide kind of charm. I'm more of a beach person, myself."
"To each his own. Now, Mr. Barton, I would like to direct your attention to the structure directly below you."
Clint looks down. The fenced paddock he spotted the night before is right below the window. From up here, the paw prints in the mud and the scratches and claw marks on the stained lower, plank clad part of the enclosure makes it pretty clear what its purpose is.
"Classy little fuckers, aren't you? I mean, kidnapping, cold-blooded murder and dogfighting."
"Bread and circuses." Clint can hear the casual shrug riding the words. "Not everyone is a fine art connoisseur." A tablet appears by Clint's side. "Here. Take this."
Clint starts reaching for it with his left hand, but changes his mind when the movement does unpleasant things to his shoulder. He takes it with his right. There's a media player open on the screen. Blacker reaches over and taps it. Clint immediately recognizes the scene in the clip that starts rolling. It's the view he just turned away from. The paddock. The angle tells him it's filmed from this very window. It's nighttime and on the screen the floodlights around the pen are fired up, illuminating the circular area in bright, hard light. The film clip has no sound, but there's no mistaking the energy coming from the crowd around the paddock. There's violence in the air.
Four dogs prowl the pen. Must be the dogs he heard when they were taken from the truck to the house. Yeah. Definitely no Chihuahuas. Looks like some kind of Staff-mix, all solid muscle and sheer fucking tenacity. They're agitated, baring their teeth and snapping at each other, growling and barking without sound at the silently taunting crowd.
"Beautiful animals, aren't they?"
Clint doesn't answer, and just then, a ripple goes through the crowd on the screen, and the excitement escalates into something savage. The crowd at the back parts and Clint suddenly knows what's he's looking at. His stomach clenches.
"You sick fuck," he grinds out.
A man is dragged towards the pen by two guards. Clint recognizes one. It's the bastard standing by the stairs behind him, Dewey. The captive is rail thin and dressed in an orange jumpsuit identical to Clint's. He's got a bag over his head and he's hunched over, holds his tied hands in front of his face, trying to protect himself against the crowd he can hear but not see.
Clint starts counting all the ways he wants to kill Blacker.
One, smash his face with a lead pipe until his brains seeps out through his ears.
The bag is roughly pulled off the man's head, and he squints in the glare of the floodlights. He looks not even twenty. No more than a kid. Jesus. Clint sees the moment the kid realizes what's going to happen, sees the whites of his eyes and the utter panic as he lashes out, twists and kicks at the guards. They easily avoid his attacks and thrust him into the crowd. And once he's within reach of the mob, he doesn't stand a chance. He tries to dig his heels in, but he slips and goes down. But he's not down for long, he's pulled up by his hair, his arms, his jumpsuit, and shoved forward. Within seconds, he hits the side of the pen. The dogs are going absolutely insane, and Clint feels cold to the very core.
Two, break one bone after the other until the bastard's body can't take it anymore and shuts down. Clint will make it last for days.
Three, slit his Achilles tendons and watch him try to crawl away as he bleeds out
A massive bouncer type shoves the crowd back to open a small gate at the bottom of the fence. The young man mindlessly grabs for anything he can reach as he's pushed down and through. People's clothes, their arms, the frame on both sides of the gate. A couple of vicious kicks to his hands makes him to lose his grip and he falls into the pen.
He doesn't even get to his knees before the dogs are on him.
The sawdust on the ground goes dark in seconds. Clint sees the kid flail, curling up on himself, but the attacks come from all sides. The crowd has gone into a twisted, blood-fueled frenzy, soundlessly roaring and banging on the fence. Somehow, the kid manages to get to his knees and drags himself towards the fence, towards the door, all the while the dogs are tearing at him and each other. Their fur and snouts are smeared with dark red, and Clint can almost smell the blood. The kid makes it about a foot.
Four, feed Blacker to his own fucking dogs.
Clint lowers the tablet. His chest feels tight. "You sick bastard." He can barely keep his voice even because of the cold rage that burns in him.
"You may not believe me, but I don't enjoy-"
"You're right, I don't."
"Well, that's your prerogative," Blacker says. "But I honestly don't enjoy this. However, as you pointed out yourself, it's just a matter of time before you associates locate you, so we're on the clock."
Clint puts the tablet down very carefully on the window sill. He wants to smash it into Blacker's head. "You're not stupid," he says. "My codes only give access to low-level systems, nothing that you could possibly use. And you must realize that they are useless by now. What do you really want?"
Blacker spreads his hands. "Like I said, I personally want absolutely nothing." He fishes the pen from his pocket and offers it to Clint again. "My employers, on the other hand, want everything. And I think we'll start with the codes, regardless."
Blacker doesn't care about the codes as such at this point, Clint knows that. He's extracting the information just because he can, just to drive home the point - again - that Clint really doesn't have a choice in the matter and that any sort of resistance comes at a high price. He takes the pen.
"So? Old money or noveau riche? Your bosses, I mean." Clint knows it's useless. Blacker really doesn't seem like the stereotype villain who will happily reveal all out of sheer ego.
"I wouldn't be very professional if I told you, would I?"
Clint has to give him that. Blacker is professional. Unnervingly so. "What do you get out of this?"
"A pay check."
"And their end game? Global domination? " Clint keeps his eyes on Blacker, tries to read every minute sign in his eyes and his body language, because Clint keeps running straight into the bastard's hard limits, and he doesn't know if he's about to hit another by simply talking. He's flying blind here.
"I didn't ask." Blacker nods at the paper. "The codes. Now, Mr. Barton."
Clint hold Blacker's calm gaze for three defiant seconds, then walks to the desk, puts the paper down and starts writing. The codes are already obsolete, but giving in like this still tastes like failure and surrender on his tongue.
Next Blacker wants the location of all safe houses in Sweden. Clint's hands want to shake as he writes down two obsolete addresses. He's truly skating on thin fucking ice here, and the thought of dragging someone else down with him fills him with an anxiety that most definitely is chemically enhanced. It's an atypical reaction and that's why he recognizes it. Not because he's an emotionless bastard who normally wouldn't blink at something like this, but because he has always been good at compartmentalizing when he needs to.
Blacker asks for drop sites in Zurich. Clint weighs the risk of giving him more false information against the risk to the operations. The drop spots are changed every month, and the break point is tomorrow. He gives Blacker two real ones. Then Blacker asks for the location of S.H.I.E.L.D's European server halls. Clint hesitates, then decides to go with the truth and hopes like hell Blacker believes him, because he's not sure he can take another 'refresher' right now.
"I'm in the field, Blacker. Why would I know where the server halls are? I don't even know what a fucking server hall is." He actually does know what one is, but that's not the relevant part here.
Blacker watches him silently for what feels like forever, and Clint's stomach drops. His fingers tighten around the pen.
Then Blacker simply says, "Okay. I believe you."
Clint wants to close his eyes in relief, but he doesn't.
Blacker smiles. "We're making progress."
The progress stops shortly thereafter.
Blacker asks for weapons depots in the US and Clint's anxiety steps over the edge into something that tastes like desperation. This is it, he just ran out of space to yield. The depots are something he can't let Blacker have, not now, not ever
He gives directions to a landfill in Samson, West Virginia.
Blacker spends a few moments checking something on the tablet. He raises one eyebrow and turns the tablet to face Clint. "You mean this?"
Fucking Google Earth. "You don't expect the stash to be out in the open, do you? It's an underground facility," Clint says.
Blacker shakes his head. "You really are a slow study, aren't you?"
When Clint is pushed back into the cell again, Natasha isn't there.
.
.
Notes:
I want to add an apology for the stereotype use of Staffordshire bull terriers. Staffies are loyal, wonderful dogs in the right hands.
